822 
W87b 


BOUQUET. 


IN  0NJ5  ACT 


AOAPTSfl  ntOM  TBM  ntSgCB, 


J.  A.  WOODWARO. 


BOUQUET. 


CHARACTER?. 

Paul  Gaillaki> 

BiGOQUET. 

Jennib  Gaillabd. 
Fauleeia 


Scene  laid  in  Fabis. 
Time.  —  The  present. 


Bntered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871  b> 
Charles  H.  Spencer,  Agent, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


Wg'ib 


BOUQUET. 


SCENE.  Elegant  Salon  in  Gaillard's  house.  —  Doors  c.  and  ai 
E.  1  E.  —  Door  at  l.  3  e.  —  Window  r.  —  Fireplace  and  mantel 
L.  at  hack,  —  Piano  l.  1  e.  —  Oval  centre-table  centre  of  stage,  — 
Two  chairs,  —  Worh-tahle  r.,  and  sofa  near.  —  Bookcase  l.  2  e. 

Jennie  discovered  seated  at  piano.  —  Gaillard  preparing  to  go  out, 

Gaillard  (to  himself  seeking  what  he  needs).  My  coat,  my  hat, 
my  umbrella  —  my  handkerchief. 

Jennie  {sighing).  Go,  then,  if  you  must. 

Gail.  Now  you  must  know  that  if  it  were  not  absolutely  neces- 
sary   

Jennie.  Pm  not  sure  of  it  at  all  —  but  that  makes  no  difference. 
I  am  sure  that  you've  not  passed  a  single  evening  at  home  for  a 
week. 

Gail,  Not  one? 

Jennie.  Not  one !    And  you  never  take  me  anywhere ;  and  I'm 
dying  to  see  the  new  play  at  the  theatre. 
Gail.  We'll  go  next  week. 
Jennie  (wearily).  Ah! 

Gail.  Now  do  be  sensible,  and  try  to  understand  me.  The  money 
market  —  the  financial  situation  — - 1  am  obliged  to  be  continually  on 

the  alert,  or  else  

Jennie.  I  can't  see  why  the  money  market  should  take  you  to  the 
opera  every  evening. 

Gail,  Yes  I    I  go  to  hear  the  rumors  and  news,  in  order  to  profit 
by  it  to  gain  money  enough  to  lavish  on  my  little  wife. 
J     Jennie.  What  I'm  going  to  ask  you  for  won't  require  much  money. 
^  On  your  way  down  town  please  buy  me  a  bouquet — a  pretty  bouquet, 
i  Will  you  remember  it? 

Gail.  Indeed  I  will.    Bye,  bye,  Jennie  dear. 


4 


BOUQUET. 


Jennie,  Shall  you  return  late  ? 

Oaih  No ;  about  half  past  ten  or  eleven  —  as  usual.  Bye,  bye, 
dear!    (^Crosses  towards  door,  c.) 

Jennie,  Bye,  bye.    Don't  forget  my  bouquet. 

Gail,  (jsxit  door,  c).  Yes  —  a  bouquet!  a  pretty,  large  bouquet. 

Jennie  {rising  and  crossing  r.).  What  a  trouble  it  must  be  for 
him  to  have  a  little  wife  —  like  myself  —  and  to  leave  her  here  for  a 
week  —  all  alone.  I  know  that  it's  to  earn  money,  so  that  I  can 
have  all  I  wish,  as  he  says  —  and  really  I  have  a  great  deal  —  but  I 
should  like  more.  {Sits  near  table  and  takes  needle-work.)  I  must 
think  of  some  way  to  pass  the  evening.  It's  a  long  time  till  eleven 
o'clock.  O,  Penelope!  Penelope!  {Leaves  her  work  and  takes 
newspaper.)  What  could  Penelope  have  read  when  she  was  tired 
of  work.  {Glances  at  paper.)  Where  was  I?  {Reading.)  "  Mons. 
Legrand  was  desperate !  The  policeman  tore  his  hair."  ( Violent 
ringing.)  Who's  that?  I  don't  expect  any  one.  It's  Paul!  doubt- 
less he  has  forgotten  something. 

Enter  Pauline,  c. 

Pauline,  Madame  I 
Jennie,  Well  ? 

Pauline,  It's  a  young  man,  madame. 
Jennie,  A  young  man  ? 

Bicoquet  {passes  his  head  into  door,  c,  and  trying  to  attract  Pau- 
line's attention).  Here!  I  say!  young  woman!  here! 
Pauline,  Sir? 

Bic,  {stage  whisper).  Don't  say  a  young  man  —  say  a  man  still 
young  —  that  is  more  exact. 
Jennie,  But,  sir  

Bic,  A  thousand  pardons,  madame.  I  only  showed  myself  to  cor- 
rect a  mistake.  I  know  very  well  that  until  madame  has  said 
*'  Admit  the  gentleman,"  I  ought  to  remain  here  in  the  passage.  I 
return,  madame  —  I  return.  {Disappears.) 

Jennie  {rising).  What  is  the  gentleman's  name ?  Did  he  give  his 
name? 

Pauline,  His  name? 

Bic.  {reappearing  —  to  Pauline,  as  before).  Here,  you,  the  card. 
Jennie,  Again  ? 

Bic,  A  thousand  pardons,  madame !  She  forgets  that  I  have  given 
her  my  card.  I  have  shown  myself  to  recall  it  to  her.  I  return, 
madame  —  I  return.  {Disappears.) 

Pauline,  Yes,  madame,  here  is  his  card.    {Gives  card.) 

Jennie  {reading  card),  Jules  Bicoquet."  I  don't  know  him  at 
all. 

Bic,  {reappearing,  impatiently).  Tell  her  what  I  told  you. 
{Disappea/rs.) 

Pauline  {to  B.).  I  was  going  to  tell  her  in  a  moment.  {To  Jen- 
nie.) This  gentleman  said  that  he  called  about  a  very  urgent  matter 
which  particularly  interested  madame. 


BOUQUET. 


5 


Sic,  (opening  door,  without  showing  himself)*  And  which  will 
not  admit  of  a  moment's  delay.    {Shuts  door.) 

Jennie.  What  can  this  mean?  I  must  attend  to  it.  Show  the 
5:entleman  in. 

Pauline  opens  door,  and  signals  to  H.  to  enter. 

Bic.  (majestic  entrance).  At  last!  (^Advancing  and  bowing.) 
Madame ! 

Jennie.  Sir!  (To  Vxvi^m^,  who  crosses  towards  door ^b..)  Re- 
main, Pauline. 

Bic.  Ah,  madame,  five  minutes  only  — I  beg  of  you— just  five 
minutes. 

Jennie.  But,  sir  

Bic.  You  will  not  repent  it. 

Jennie  (aside).  What  should  I  fear,  after  all?  He  appears  strange, 
but  not  dangerous.    (To  Pauline.)    You  may  go,  Pauline. 

[Exit  Pauline,  c. 

Bic.  Whatever  I  may  appear,  madame,  I  have  at  least  one  of 
the  qualities  which  distinguish  superior  men  —  I  have  only  one,  per- 
haps — — 

Jennie.  And  that  is  

Bic.  I  am  stupid  with  the  ladies. 

Jennie.  Sir! 

Bic.  Ah  I  you  will  not  believe  me :  thanks  —  but  I  will  soon  con- 
vince you  of  it.  My  name  is  easy  to  pronounce  —  James  Bicoquet. 
My  age  —  thirty- four  years.  As  to  my  fortune  —  it  is  sufiiciont. 
Fifteen  years  ago,  it  would  have  passed  as  quite  handsome,  but  to- 
day —  in  modern  Paris  

Jennie.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  

Bic.  Madame! 

Jennie.  You  said  this  interview  concerned  a  matter  which  in- 
terested me  particularly. 
Bic.  Yes,  madame ! 
Jennie.  And  I  would  like  to  know. 
Bic.  What!  Immediately.? 
Jennie.  Yes!  Immediately! 

Bic.  I  will  not  conceal  that  I  intended  to  keep  it  until  the  last  — 
but  since  you  seem  to  desire  it  —  your  husband  deceives  you, 
madame ! 

Jennie.  Sir ! 

Bic.  You  are  the  most  interesting  and  most  unhappy  of  lovely 
wives  —  your  husband  deceives  you ! 
Jennie.  Sir!  Sir! 

Bic.  At  this  moment,  even,  he  is  above.    (Points  to  ceiling.) 
Jennie  (looking  at  ceiling) .  Above  ? 

Bic.  Yes,  above,  with  the  little  actress  on  the  second  flight.  He 
is  just  sitting  down  to  a  game  of  Bezique  —  and  he  is  losing.  I  can'l 
see  the  cards  —  but  for  all  that,  I'll  wager  that  he  lases. 

Jennie  (fiercely).  Proofs,  sir  —  proofs ! 


s 


BOUQUET. 


Bte.  Do  you  ask  for  proofs  ? 
Jennie,  Yes  I 

Bic,  Very  well.  (^Shows  the  hat  which  he  holds  in  his  ha/nds,') 
Look  at  this,  madame  I  Have  the  kindness  to  look.  {Puts  hat  on 
his  head,  which  disappears  completely.) 

Jennie,  Well  ? 

Bic.  Well  —  don't  you  see?  (^Takes  off  hat  and  holds  it  in  his 
hand.) 

Jennie.  What  does  that  prove? 

Bic.  That  —  that  proves  it  is  not  my  hat.  It  proves  it  belongs  to 
Mons.  Paul  Gaillard.  (^Shows  inside  of  hat.)  P.  G.,  madame  — 
P.  G.! 

Jennie.  Too  true  I 

Bic.  Ten  minutes  ago,  madame,  /  was  above  there.  What  a 
recollection  —  and  I  was  forced  to  leave  to  make  room  for  your 
husband.  Instead  of  taking  my  own  hat,  I  took  his,  and  I  have 
brought  it  to  you.  Are  you  convinced  now?  Is  the  proof  suffi- 
cient?   {Puts  hat  on  table.) 

Jennie  (falls,  overwhelmed,  on  sofa  near  work-table).  O  heavens ! 
can  this  be  true  ? 

Bic.  {melancholy,  and  taking  chair -r.  of  table).  Every  evening,  at 
nine  o'clock,  I  come  and  sit  near  her.  {Sits.) 

Jennie.  But,  sir  I 

Bic.  {firmly,  and  rising).  Ah!  Now  that  I  have  proved  that  I 
really  have  something  interesting  to  say  to  you,  I  hope  that  you  will 
have  the  goodness  not  to  interrupt  me,  and  that  you  will  allow  me 
to  relate  my  little  story.  {Reseating  himself,  sadly.)  Every  even- 
ing, at  nine  o'clock,  I  come  and  sit  near  her.  "  Good  evening, 
To-to,"  I  say  to  her.  Toto  "  diminutive  for  Antonia.  "  Good 
evening,  Co-co,"  she  replies-  ''Coco"  diminutive  for  Bicoquet. 
*' How  de  do,  Toto."  ''O,  not  badly.  Coco;  bring  out  the  cards." 
And  then  I  bring  out  the  cards,  and  the  play  commences.  Forty  for 
the  trump  —  one  hundred  for  the  ace  —  two  hundred  and  fifty  —  five 
hundred.  O !  so  complete,  so  intense  a  happiness,  could  not  last. 
A  week  ago  I  came  —  I  rang  —  and  the  servant  stopped  me,  and 
said :  '*  You  must  not  enter,  sir  —  madame  is  with  her  godmother  from 
Normandy."  I  went  away  without  a  word.  The  next  day  I  re- 
turned. The  godmother  was  again  there.  The  next  day  the  god- 
mother was  there  still,  and  I  became  suspicious.  I  played  the  spy, 
and  I  discovered  that  this  godmother,  who  had  taken  my  place,  and 
interrupted  my  happiness,  was  

Jennie  {angrily).  My  husband !    My  husband  with  that  woman? 

Bic.  {approaching  his  chair).  If  we  leave  him  there  

Jennie  {rising,  and  crosses  quickly).  What  did  you  say? 

Bic.  {rising).  I  can  see  but  two  solutions  to  the  matter.  If  your 
husband  keeps  my  place,  that  he  has  taken  —  why,  then,  I  must  take 
his.    {Sadly.)    Every  evening,  at  nine  o'clock,  I  will  come. 

Jennie  {indignantly).  Sir!  what  do  you  mean? 

Bic.  I  know  it's  rather  strange ;  but  if  you  were  a  true  Parisian, 
gay  of  1852 — you  see  —  I  do  not  complain.    In  the  first  place,! 


BOUQUET. 


7 


have  one  fii^ht  up  stairs  less  to  climb,  and  also  you  are  far  more 

pretty  than  —  {suddenly)  have  you  any  cards  ? 
Jennie  (very  indignanf).  Sir,  leave  the  room  instantly  I 
Bic,  No  ?  that  does  not  suit  you.    Well,  then,  the  second  solution 

is  —  we  must  call  your  husband  down. 
Jennie,  Ah !  I  much  prefer  that. 

Bic.  When  he  comes  down,  I  will  go  up.  It's  very  simple,  and 
everything  will  be  proper.  Gaillard  here  —  Bicoquet  there.  {Points 
above.)    Yes,  we  must  call  your  husband  down. 

Jennie,  I  ask  nothing  more  —  but  how  ? 

Bic,  As  you  wish. 

Jennie.  Give  me  an  idea. 

Bic.  {violently).  And  why  should  I  furnish  you  with  ideas.  It 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  interested  as  much  as  I. 

Jennie  {equally  violent).  And  how  can  I,  in  the  state  of  excite- 
ment in  which  I  am  ? 

Bic.  {still  more  violent).  Well,  madame,  and  I.  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  am  not  excited  myself?  So  much  so  that  I  could  scream  —  if 
I  did  not  think  it  too  familiar  for  a  first  visit.  {Sound  of  piano  and 
singing  heard  overhead.)  There  I  hear  that?  {The  voice  stops  and 
air  continues  —  Bic.  sings.)    La  —  la  —  la  I 

Jennie,  What  has  happened  to  you  ? 

Bic.  That  air— I  remember  it.  She  always  sings  so  when  she 
wins.  Ah !  {Sings.)  La  —  la  —  la  I  I  assure  you,  madame,  that 
if  that  air  continues,  I  shall  certainly  scream.  {Goes  behind  table 
and  screams.) 

Jennie  {crosses  quickly  to  fireplace),  I  beg  of  you  to  remain  quiet, 
sir.  {Rings.) 

Bic,  Do  you  turn  me  away,  madame  ? 
Jennie.  No ;  an  idea  has  just  struck  me. 
Bic,  To  call  him  down  ? 
Jennie,  Yes. 

Enter  Pauline,  c. 
Pauline  {at  door,  c).  Madame? 

Jennie.  Go  up  stairs,  one  flight,  to  Mademoiselle  —  {to  Bic.) 
What  name  did  you  say,  sir? 

Bic.  {with  an  effort).  Antonia  Brunet. 

Jennie.  To  Mademoiselle  Antonia  Brunet.  You  must  say  that  I 
am  suffering —that  Madame  Gaillard  is  suffering.  Be  sure  and 
pronounce  the  name  distinctly  —  and  that  the  music  makes  me 
worse. 

Pauline,  Is  madame  ill? 

Jennie.  Yes  —  no  —  what  matters  it  to  you  ?  Go  —  the  name  — 
ton't  forget  —  Madame  Gaillard— say  the  name  loud  and  distinctly 

—  scream  so  that  all  can  hear  you.  [Exit  Pauline,  c. 
Bic.  I  understand  you.    You  count  upon  his  heart. 

Jennie.  And  I  am  not  wrong,  for  he  is  good ;  and  when  he'knowa 

—  when  he  believes  that  I  am  ill  


BOUQUET. 


Bte.  He  will  come  down.    It's  possible,  after  all.  (Music  stops,) 
There,  the  music  stops.    The  errand  is  done. 
Jennie,  Quick,  then  I    Go,  sir  —  go  I 
Bic,  O I  we  have  five  minutes  still. 
Jennie,  He  has  only  one  flight  to  descend. 

Bic.  Ah,  you  don't  understand  your  husband,  madame  —  yuu 
don't  know  him.    He  is  an  adept  at  deception. 
Jennie,  How  ? 

Bic,  Do  you  imagine  that  he  will  come  directly  here,  at  the  risk 
of  being  caught?  No,  indeed!  This  house  has  two  doors  —  one  to 
the  Rue  de  la  Porte,  and  the  other  to  the  Rue  Lafayette.  Don't  you 
see?  Mons.  Gaillard  will  descend  the  back  stairs,  pass  around  the 
house  —  enter  the  front  door  —  leisurely  ascend  the  front  stairs.  It 
will  take  at  least  five  minutes.  Allowing  that  his  anxiety  for  your 
health  should  quicken  his  steps  to-day,  he  ought  to  be  now  —  (looks 
out  of  window,)    What  did  I  tell  you,  madame  ?    Here  he  is ! 

Jennie,  Take  care,  he  may  see  you ! 

Bic,  No  fear,  madame  I    (^Draws  back  from  window,  still  look" 
ing,)    He  has  my  hat  in  one  hand,  and  a  bouquet  in  the  other. 
Jennie,  A  large  bouquet  of  roses  ? 
Bic,  Yes. 

Jennie,  I  asked  him  to  buy  me  one. 

Bic,  (laughing  and  coming  down  front).  You  asked  him  to  — 
ha  1  ha !    He  is  an  adept.    Why,  I  recognized  that  bouquet. 
Jennie,  You  recognized  it  ? 

Bic,  Perfectly.  The  very  moment  that  I  came  out  from  above,  there, 
a  great  brute  of  a  servant  brought  it  in  the  name  of  young  —  what  d'ye 
call  him  —  no  matter  who.  Your  husband  bought  it  of  mademoi- 
selle's maid,  who  appropriates  all  the  bouquets. 

Jennie  (indignantly),  01 

Bic,  But  here  he  comes,  madame  —  I  must  go.    Adieu,  madame. 
(Crosses  to  table,) 
Jennie,  Adieu,  sir.    Do  be  quick. 

Bic.  I  leave  you  your  husband's  hat,  madame.  He  will  bring  you 
mine,  which  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  send  to  me — will  you 
not? 

Jennie.  But  where,  sir  ? 

Bic.  Where  ?  Why,  above,  certainly.  Where  do  you  think  I  am 
going? 

Jennie,  Very  well,  sir.    It  shall  be  «ent  to  you, 

Bic.  And,  I  beg  of  you,  give  orders  that  it  shall  be  delivered  to 
the  servant  who  opens  the  door.  It  will  not  be  necessary  to  call  me 
personally.    (False  exit,  c.) 

Jennie  (stopping  him).  This  way,  sir.  Pauline  will  show  you 
out. 

Bic.  Adieu,  madame  —  perhaps  we  may  never  meet  again. 
Jennie  (aside),  I  certainly  hope  not. 

Bic,  Adieu  —  be  happy  —  as  for  me  —  I  will  try  —  adieu,  madame. 

\_Exit  door,  r. 

Jennie.  First,  I  must  conceal  the  hat.    (Opens  door,  s.,  and  puts 


BOUQtJET. 


hat  in  her  room.)  And  now  for  my  revenge.  At  first  I  must  be 
sweet,  and  patient,  and  hypocritical.  That  will  throw  him  off  guard, 

and  then  (while  speaking,  she  has  seated  herself  as  before  the 

entrance  of  Bic.) 

Enter  Gaillard,  c,  with  bouquet  and  hat  in  hand, 

Gail.  Suffering?    What  can  be  the  matter  ?     (Puts  hat  on  table, 
and  also  bouquet.) 
Jennie  (sighs).  Ah! 
Gail.  Jennie,  dear  Jennie ! 

Jennie  (sweetly).  Is  it  you,  my  dear?  I  thought  that  you  would 
not  return  till  half  past  ten  or  eleven,  as  usual. 

Gail.  Yes ;  but  when  I  am  away  from  you,  you  know  

Jennie.  You  are  always  kind.  But  the  stocks,  and  the  money 
market  —  you  must  not  neglect  them. 

Gail.  O !  I  was  going  to  tell  you  —  I  have  been  in  luck  —  I  hai 
the  good  fortune  to  meet  Mons.  Magimel. 

Jennie  (sadly).  Is  he  well? 

Gail.  Quite  well;  and  he  gave  me  all  the  information  that  I 
desired.    So  I  had  an  opportunity  to  return  quickly. 
Jennie  (sarcastically).  Quickly! 

Gail.  Yes,  as  quickly  as  I  could ;  and  that  is  why  — — 
Jennie.  You  took  time  to  purchase  a  bouquet,  however. 
GaiL  You  knew  I  would,  since  you  requested  it. 
Jennie.  Give  it  to  me. 

Gail,  (presenting  bouquet).  Isn't  it  pretty? 

Jennie  (takes  bouquet  and  crosses).  It's  superb  —  it  must  have 
cost  you  dear. 

Gail,  (thoughtlessly).  Yes,  it  cost  me  two  hundred  francs. 
Jennie.  Two  hundred  francs  ? 

Gail,  (recovering  himself).  Twenty  francs  —  I  meant  twenty 
francs.  .  . 

Jennie  (examining  bouquet,  and  putting  it  on  piano).  Did  you 
buy  it  at  the  opera  ?  . 

GaiL  (embarrassed).  No,  I  bought  it  in  the  Rue  Lafitte.  Magimel 
and  I,  while  chatting,  strolled  to  the  Rue  Lafitte,  so  while  I  was 
there  (Aside.)    It's  lucky  I  noticed  the  florist's  address. 

Jennie  (aside).      Coco  "  was  right.    He  ts  an  adept. 

Gail.  And  now  that  I've  returned  so  soon,  I  must  tell  you 
frankly  

Jennie.  Frankly? 

Gail.  Why,  yes.  I  had  a  presentiment just  now-— that  is, 
when  I  left  you  this  evening  —  it  seemed  to  me  —  I  thought  I  saw  — 
that  you  did  not  look  as  well  as  usual. 

Jennie.  What,  am  I  ugly  ? 

GaiL  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing —  you  were  very  handsome 
^you  always  are  — but  you  seemed  a  little — you  are  not  ill,  are 
jrou  ?   Have  you  been  ill  since  I  went  away  ? 

Jennie^  Yes. 


10 


BOUQUET. 


Gail,  Ah !  my  heart  told  me  so.    What  is  the  matter,  Jennie? 
Jennie,  I  cannot  tell  you  —  a  little  nervous. 
Gail,  Yes  —  I'm  so  sorry. 

Jennie,  I  was  nervous  a  quarter  of  an  hoar  ago,  and  I  dii  some- 
thing that  I  am  afraid  you  will  scold  me  for,  if  I  tell  you. 
Gail,  No,  no !  I  will  not  scold. 

Jennie  (cutting  her  words) .  The  person  who  lives  overhead  —  do 
you  know  who  that  person  is.'* 

Gail,  (slyly).  Who  lives  overhead? 
Jennie.  Yes. 

Gail,  (same),  A  marine  insurance  agent,  I  believe. 
Jennie  (observing liini) ,  No,  I  mean  a  lady. 
Gail,  (same).  An  old  lady? 

Jennie,  No,  a  young  lady  —  she  sat  down  to  the  piano  just  now 
and  began  to  sing  —  I  don't  know  what  she  was  singing  —  but  I  was 
so  nervous,  so  excited,  that  I  could  not  contain  myself.  I  sent 
Pauline  to  request  this  lady  to  discontinue  her  song.   Was  I  wrong? 

Gail.  No,  you  were  perfectly  right. 

Jennie,  Thanks,  you  are  very  good.  (Takes  houqueij  and  crosses 
to  table,) 

Gail,  Where  are  you  going  ? 

Jennie,  To  carry  this  bouquet  into  my  room.  (Stops  at  table,  and 
takes  up  B.'s  hat.)  Why,  what  kind  of  a  hat  have  you  got?  (Ex^ 
amining  it.)    That  isn't  yours. 

Gail,  What  —  isn't  it?  (Tries  on  hat,  which  is  too  small.)  No, 
it  is  not  mine. 

Jennie,  Let  me  see  it.    (Takes  it,)  No,  nor  it  isn't  MagimePs. 
Gail,  Indeed. 

Jennie  (shows  him  inside  of  hat).  J.  B.,  my  dear —  J.  B.  That 
doesn't  stand  for  Magimel. 

Gail,  (after  having  looked  into  hat  —  confused).  No,  it's  not 
Magimel's.    I  didn't  say  that  it  was,  did  I. 

Jennie.  No,  you  did  not  say  so ;  but  if  it  does  not  belong  to  him, 
whose  is  it? 

Gail,  (thinking  a  moment  —  both  come  forward  same  order).  Ah  I 
I  know.  The  explanation  is  very  simple.  It  could  not  be  simpler^ 
and  at  the  same  time  it  is  quite  comical.    (Forced  laugh.) 

Jennie,  But  tell  me,  and  let  me  enjoy  it. 

Gail.  Yes,  but  it's  so  comical.  You  see,  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  re- 
turn here  —  anxious  on  your  account,  my  dear  —  and  I  ran.  Well, 
as  I  was  running,  I  encountered  a  gentleman  who  was  also  running 
in  an  opposite  direction.    You  are  listening  to  me  ? 

Jennie.  Yes. 

Gail.  Now  just  let  me  show  you  —  to  make  it  more  clear.  (Bus. 
of  running  against  man  —  crosses,  r.)  You  see  the  two  hats  were 
thrown  upon  the  ground  —  one  here,  the  other  there.  I  picked  one 
up,  without  looking,  apologized  to  the  gentleman,  and  as  I  was  in  a 
hurry,  I  came  away  with  a  hat  which  did  not  belong  to  me.  (Forced 
laugh,)    You  see  it's  very  simple. 


BOUQUET. 


11 


Jennie.  Yes,  yes  —  I  see.  (Aside.)  He  is  decidedly  an  adept; 
but  I  will  force  him  to  acknowledge  yet. 

Gail,  (examining  hat).  But  I've  made  a  good  exchange.  This  is 
newer  than  mine. 

Jennie  (takes  bouquet  which  she  has  left  on  table).  I  will  be  back 
in  a  moment,  my  dear.  I  am  going  to  carry  my  bouquet  into  my 
room.    Now  don't  run  away  while  I'm  gone  —  will  you  ? 

Gail.  Could  you  believe  such  a  thing? 

Jennie.  I  will  return  immediately.      \^Exit  door  r.,  with  bouquet. 
Gail.  Stay  here!    I  think  I  will.    She  nearly  caught  me  that 
time  — and  all  on  account  of  that  miserable  hat.    Yes,  my  wife  is 
retty,  sweet,  and  agreeable,  and  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  stay  at 
ome  and  take  care  of  her. 

♦  Enter  Pauline,  c. 

Pauline.  A  letter,  sir ! 
Gail.  A  letter  ? 

Pauline.  From  the  lady  above,  sir. 

Gail,  (dissimulating) .  The  lady  above  —  I  don't  know  her  I 
Pauline.  Possibly,  sir ;  but  she  sent  you  this  letter. 
Gail,  (taking  letter).    She  does  wrong  to  write  to  me  —  very 
wrong. 

Pauline,  But  she  said  that  it  must  be  delivered  to  you,  even  if 
madame  were  present. 
Gail.  Did  she  say  that? 
Pauline.  That's  what  she  said,  sir. 

Gail,  (flattered).  Jealousy!  But  still  she  is  wrong,  and  I  am 
astonished  at  such  conduct  on  the  part  of  so  distinguished  a  person. 
(Opens  letter  and  reads.)  *'You  old  thief."  What?  (Reads 
again.)  Old  thief,  I  know  that  my  servants  read  all  my  letters, 
so  I  will  put  nothing  in  this  which  will  compromise  you."  (Spoken.) 
Thief,  indeed  !  (Reads.)  I  suppose  that  you  understand  me.  If 
you  are  not  in  my  room  in  five  minutes,  I  shall  know  what  action  to 
take.    Yours  —  or  rather  wanting  my  own  —  Antonia."  (Repeats.) 

I  suppose  that  you  understand  me.  If  you  are  not  in  my  room  in 
five  minutes,  I  shall  know  what  action  to  take."  (Spoken.)  This  is 
some  joke,  but  I  really  don't  understand  it. 

Pauline.  Well,  sir. 

Gail.  Whsit? 

Pauline.  Why,  the  reply  —  she  is  waiting. 
Gail.  There  is  no  reply. 

Pauline.  Very  well,  sir.  '  [Exit,  c. 

Gail,  (^o  Pauline  duyHng  exit).  Say  it  very  politely —  add  that  I 
laughed  very  much.  (Returns  down,  c.)  That  will  please  her,  and 
I  do  not  wish  to  offend  her  —  but  it  is  a  strange  joke.  I  cannot  un- 
derstand it.  There  ought  to  be  some  point  to  a  jest.  For  instance, 
if  you  were  to  approach  a  gentleman  whom  you  don't  know,  and  ask 
him  to  hold  one  end  of  a  long  string,  and  then  ask  another  gentle- 
man, whom  you  know  just  as  little,  to  hold  the  other  end  —  and  then 


IS 


BOUQUET. 


walk  quietly  away.  Now  that  is  a  good  joke,  but  simply  because 
there  is  some  sense  to  it.  (^Looks  at  letter.)  But  thai  !  {Finishes 
his  monologue  at  r.) 

^nter  Pauline,  c. 

Pauline,  Sir !    Sir ! 

GaiL  Well,  what  is  the  matter.? 

Pauline,  That  lady  

Gail.  Another  letter  ? 

Pauline.  She  says  that  you  have  only  three  minutes,  and  that  if 
you  don't  come  up,  she'll  come  down. 

Gail.  Well,  tell  her  that  1  cannot  come  —  that  I  am  seriously  en- 
gaged. Yes  — very  seriously  —  in  trying  to  keep  quiet.  She  takes 
me  for  a  fool,  but  she  is  mistaken. 

Pauline,  Well,  sir!  IFxit,  c. 

Gail,  (same  business  for  exit).  Tell  her  so  very  politely.  Now 
what  kind  of  a  scrape  am  I  getting  into  ?  Is  she  really  capable  of — 
What  in  the  world  are  we  coming  to,  if  a  man  cannot  make  a  mis- 
take in  a  flight  of  stairs  without  

Pauline  {enters  hurriedly,  c).  Sir !    Sir ! 

Gail.  Well?  ^  . 

Pauline,  She  says  you  have  only  two  minutes,  sir,  and  she  is 
putting  on  her  gloves. 

Gail.  Well,  what  of  it? 

Pauline,  I  don't  know  what  has  happened,  sir,  or  what  she  ac- 
cuses you  of  —  but  she  spoke  to  me  about  sending  for  the  police. 
Gail,  The  police? 
Pauline.  Yes,  sir. 

Gail,  {furious).  What  the  devil  can  be  the  matter  with  the 
woman  ?    What  can  she  mean  ? 

Pauline,  I'm  only  a  poor  girl,  but  if  I  were  to  advise  you,  sir, 
you  ought  to  speak  to  that  lady.    There  is  but  little  time,  sir. 

Gail.  Yes,  yes  —  I'll  go.    But  tell  her  so  politely. 

Pauline,  Well,  sir.  .  iExit. 

Gail,  {puts  Bic.'s  hat  on  head — seeing  that  it  does  not  fit,  he 
throws  it  down  savagely  on  table).  What's  that  now?  Must  I  be 
bothered  all  my  life  with  that  hat? 

Enter  Jennie,  r.,  with  Gail.'s  hat,  which  she  holds  behind  her. 

Jennie  {extremely  dignified).  And  now,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  will 
explain  to  me  how  your  hat   {Presents  his  hat.) 

Gail,  {taking  his  hat  and  putting  B.'s  on  table).  Ah!  thank  you. 
(Puts  it  on.)    Just  in  time.    {Opens  door,  c.) 

Jennie,  What,  are  you  going  out? 

Gail.  Yes  

Jennie.  Why?  r  et  • 

Gail.  I  will  explain  by  and  by.  lEx%t. 
Jennie  {down  c).  And  just  as  I  came  in  with  his  hat  to  confound 


BOUQTTBT* 


—  to  overwhelm  him.  And  I  had  prepared  such  a  pretty  lecture, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  lecture  a  pardon  prettier  still.  (^Furiously,) 
But  now  

Enter  Bicoquet  desperate* 

Bic,  They've  turned  me  out,  madame. 
Jennie,  You  ? 

Bic,  Yes  !    This  time  they  turned  me  out  I 
Jennie.  You  here  again,  sir? 

Bic,  Ought  you  not  to  expect  it,  since  you  have  let  him  go  up 
there  again  ?   It's  your  fault.    Why  didn't  you  keep  him  ? 
Jennie,  Is  my  husband  up  there  ? 

Bic,  He  is  madame!    So  naturally  —  I  

Jennie,  Proofs,  sir,  proofs ! 

Bic.  I  anticipate  them.  {Showing  Gail.'s  hat.)  Look  at  that 
hat. 

Jennie,  His  hat  again  ? 

Bic,  Precisely. 

Jennie,  This  is  too  much ! 

Bic.  (^putting  hat  on  table).  And  as  mine  is  no  longer  above,  your 
husband  will  have  to  come  down  bareheaded  —  when  he  comes. 

Jennie  (exasperated).  And  he  hadn't  been  back  five  minutes  — 
only  five  minutes. 

Bic,  How  can  you  help  it,  madame?  Your  husband  is  in- 
fatuated. 

Jennie  (falls  into  chair  l,,  of  table,  —  Angrily  y  to  herself).  And  he 
is  there  again.    (Points  above  —  rises.) 

Bic.  Yes,  madame,  he  is  there,  over  our  heads.  (Indignantly.) 
And  the  floor  doesn't  open  to  swallow  them.  (Listening.)  We 
can  hear  footsteps. 

Jennie  (preoccupied).  We  must  call  him  down  again,  sir. 

Bic,  That's  been  my  sole  object  since  the  commencement  of  our 
acquaintance ;  but  how  ? 

Jennie.  When  she  sang  just  now,  we  heard  her.  So  if  we  sing 
here,  they  must  hear  us  above. 

Bic.  Very  probably,  madame,  sound  having  one  quality  in  com- 
mon with  your  husband  —  it  ascends. 

Jennie,  Then  sing,  sir. 

Bic,  I? 

Jennie.  Certainly !  It  must  be  a  man's  voice.  Don't  you  under- 
stand ?  Jealousy. 

Bic,  But  you  see  I  am  always  enveloped  in  a  blanket  for  twelve 
hours  before  I  attempt  to  sing;  and  this  evening  I  did  not  ex- 
pect   

Jennie,  What  difference  does  it  make,  provided  you  sing  loud, 
and  that  you  make  noise  enough  ? 

Bic,  If  madame  will  have  the  goodness  to  get  me  some  blankets, 
I  will  wrap  myself  up,  and  perhaps  in  twelve  hours  

Jennie,  No,  no  1  Now  —  immediately  I  Come,  come !  (SitB  ai 
piano.) 


14 


k/GUQUET. 


Bic,  You  see,  madame,  that  my  style  of  music  

Jennie  {strikes  chord).  You  are  losing  time.  Quick,  quick! 
(Bic.  sings.  —  Enter  Gail,  frightened^  with  gray  hat  on  his 
head.  On  his  entrance,  Jennie  rises  with  dignity,  Bic.  strikes 
an  attitude.     Gail,  pays  not  the  least  oMention  to  themS) 

Gail,  (frightened).  It  wasn't  a  joke.  She  was  on  the  point  of 
sending  for  the  police.  Ten  thousand  francs.  There  were  ten 
thousand  francs  in  the  bouquet.    Ten  thousand  francs  sent  by  young 

—  what's  his  name ;  and  she  accuses  me  of  having  stolen  them. 
{Notices  Bic.)    Ah ! 

Jennie  (to  Gail.).  Allow  me  to  introduce  Monsieur  Bicoquet. 
Gail.    Well,  yes  —  by  and  by.    But  the  bouquet  first.  What 
have  you  done  with  the  bouquet  that  I  just  gave  you  ? 
Jennie.  That  bouquet !    Do  you  dare  to  speak  of  it  ? 
Gail,  It  is  in  your  room,  is  it  not  ? 

Jennie.  No,  sir ;  it  is  not  in  my  room.  I  threw  it  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

Gail,  What.?  When? 

Jennie,  I  threw  it  away,  sir;  because  I  knew  where  it  came  from. 
Do  you  understand,  sir?    I  know  all  — — 

Gail,  You  have  thrown  it  away!  (Enters  precipitately  into 
Jennie's  room,  r.) 

Jennie  (disappointed).  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it? 

Bic,  {quickly).  Did  you  notice,  madame?  It  is  impossible  that 
you  should  not  have  noticed.    He  had  a  hat  

Jennie,  No ;  I  was  too  much  occupied. 

Bic.  But  the  hat  was  gray. 

Enter  Gaillard,  r. 

Gail,  (crosses  to  door,  c,  and  calls).  Pauline !  —  don't  she  hear? 

—  Pauline ! 

Jennie  (exasperated),  O,  what  shall  I  do? 

Enter  Pauline,  who  keeps  near  door,  c. 

Gail.  Quick  !  Run  down  and  ask  the  porter  if  he  has  picked  up 
d  bouquet  which  was  thrown  from  the  window. 

Pauline.  Yes,  sir.    {Exit,  c.  — Gail  returns  down,  c.) 

Bic.  I  think  I'd  better  go  up  again.    {Crosses  towards  c.) 

Gail,  (stopping  him).  Kemain,  sir,  I  beg  you. 

Jennie  {to  Gail,  who  does  not  listen).  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour;  — 
pay  attention  to  what  I  say,  sir ;  —  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I'm  going 
to  leave  this  house,  to  find  a  refuge  with  my  aunt.  You  will  never 
see  me  again.  Don't  try  to  defend  yourself — it  will  be  useless. 
Send  Pauline  to  me  when  she  returns.  (Bursts  into  tears,  and  exit 
door,  R.) 

Bic.  {to  Gail).  Well,  sir? 

Gail,  (to  Pauline,  who  enters).  Well? 

Pauline,  The  porter  has  not  seen  the  bouquett  sir. 


BOUQUET. 


15 


OoM.  Very  well.  I  will  attend  to  the  rest.  Go  to  your  mis- 
tress' room  —  she  wants  you.  [Exit  Pauline,  b 

Bic,  (heroically).  Yes,  sir,  I  acknowledge  it;  it's  all  tru6.  You 
have  stolen  my  happiness  along  with  the  woman  I  love;  and  I,  in 
return,  have  stolen  

Gail,  O,  bother  that  at  present.    Bicoquet,  I  believe  — 

Bic,  James  Bicoquet. 

Gail,  {crossing  to  secretary,  k.).  Yes,  yes,  all  the  same  to  me. 
(Aside,)  I  must  pay  somehow.  (^Taking  money-drawer  from  the 
secretary,  and  putting  it  on  table,  pushes  off  hats  with  the  drawer,) 
In  the  drawer,  4950  francs.  In  my  portemonnaie  and  in  my  pockets 
(counting  money),  627.  (Feels  in  all  his  pockets,)  What  is  this?  — 
some  sous  —  627  francs  30  sous.  (Figures  in  pocket-hook.)  That 
makes  6577  francs  30  centimes.  Not  enough  to  pay  ten  thousand. 
(Calculating,)  The  remainder  is —  (To  Bic.)  Have  you  4422 
francs  70  centimes  about  you? 

Bic,  4422  francs? 

Gail,  Yes,  and  70  centimes.    If  you  have  it,  lend  it  to  me. 
Bic.  (explosively).  Well,  and  I  should  like  to  know  why? 
Gail,  Why? 
Bic,  Yes. 

Gail,  Because  there  are  situations  in  which  a  man  of  pleasure 
always  expects  another  man  of  pleasure  to  have  4000  francs  about 
him.  I  am  in  one  of  these  situations.  There  were  10,000  franca 
in  the  bouquet. 

Bic,  O I 

Gail,  Yes,  and  she  demands  them,  and  accuses  me  of  stealing. 
You  understand  that  I  cannot  go  and  tell  her  that  my  wife  threw  the 
bouquet  out  of  the  window.  I  must  pay  them  —  not  to-morrow,  nor 
in  an  hour,  but  immediately. 

Bic.  (much  interested).  Yes,  I  understand. 

Gail,  (shaking  his  hand).  Then  lend  me  the  money. 

Bic,  How  much  did  you  say  —  4000  francs  ? 

Gail,  4422  francs  70  centimes. 

Bic.  (slowly  counting  on  his  fingers),  4422  francs  70  centimes. 
I  haven't  got  it. 

Gail,  (angrily).  Then  why  didn't  you  say  so  at  once.  How  much 
have  you  got?    Have  you  any  money  at  all? 

Bic,  (drawing  money  slowly  from  pocket),  I  have.  43  francs  25 
centimes. 

Gail,  Let's  have  them.  (Figures  in  hook.)  That  makes  5620 
francs  11  sous.    Haven't  you  any  more?  Look. 

Bic,  (low,  and  trying  to  conceal  some  hills,  which  he  shows  to  au" 
dience),  I  have  still  a  note  for  1000  francs,  and  one  of  600-^ 
but  

Gail,  (who  has  heard).  Give  them  to  me.  (Snatching  them.) 
Are  you  afraid?  I  am  known,  sir!  (With pride,)  I  have  a  name 
on  change.  I  am  one  of  those  who  pay,  sir;  who  always  pay  —  till 
just  this  moment. 

Bic*  Listen  to  me,  sir.    I  bate  you  I 


16 


BOUQUET. 


Gail.  Well,  sir;  and  I.  Do  you  think  that  after  having  diseov- 
erei  you  in  a  t^te-a-t^te  with  my  wife  at  this  hour,  that  I  don't 
intend  to  ask  an  explanation?    But  not  now,  sir;  not  now.  How 

did  the  figures  stand  ? 

Bic.  (furious).  I  know  nothing  ahout  it. 

Gail,  {equally  furious).  Well,  sir,  111  tell  you  —  7120  francs  50 
centimes.  {Calmer.)  Who  shall  I  apply  to  next?  My  wife  ?  She 
will  profit  by  the  occasion  to  inform  me  she  has  run  into  debt.  Ah, 
the  chambermaid !  {Rings,)  Pauline!  Pauline  1  (^/i^(?r Pauline, 
R.)    Why  don't  you  come  sooner  when  I  ring? 

Pauline.  But,  sir,  I  was  with  madame.  She  doesn't  know  which 
dress  to  put  on  to  seek  a  refuge  with  her  aunt. 

Gail.  With  her  aunt? 

Pauline.  Yes,  sir.    Is  it  possible  that  you  don't  know? 
Gail,  Well,  well,  we'll  see  about  all  that  immediately.    Tell  me, 
Pauline,  have  you  saved  any  of  your  wages  ? 
Pauline.  I  have  600  francs,  sir. 

Gail,  Go  get  them  for  me.  At  the  same  time,  step  in  and  see  the 
cook  —  she  ought  to  have  saved  something  also.  Ask  her  for  it  on 
my  account.  At  the  same  time  get  what  there  is  left  of  the  house- 
keeping money.  Tell  her  to  give  you  all  the  money  she  has  —  do 
you  understand  ?  —  all  she  has. 

Pauline,  Certainly,  sir.  lExiU  c. 

Gail,  {fumbling  in  his  pockets).  You  have  nothing  more  left, 
have  you,  sir  ? 

Bic,  {impatiently),  N-o,  nothing,  at  all,  sir. 

Gail,  And  to  think  that  all  this  has  happened  because  there  are 
some  men  in  the  world  foolish  enough  to  send  10,000  francs  to  a 
woman  in  that  manner  

Bic,  Little  what's-his-name  

Gail,  And  he  calls  himself  a  gentleman.  Instead  of  employing 
his  fortune  nobly  —  or  rather  —  I  mean  instead  of  keeping  his  10,000 
francs  —  {Fumbling  in  pockets,)  You  are  quite  sure  that  you  hai?e 
nothing  left,  sir? 

Bic,  But  I  told  you,  sir  

Enter  Pauline,  c,  napkin  in  one  hand,  with  her  sayings,  and 
pitcher  in  the  other,  in  which  are  in  silver  the  savings  of  the 
cook, 

Pauline.  Here  are  my  500  francs,  sir.  {Gives  napkin  to  Gail., 
who  passes  it  to  Bic, —  Gail,  fgur  in  g  all  the  time.)  Here  is  the 
house  money  —  259  francs  90  centimes ;  and  here  are  the  cook's 
savings  —  1950  francs. 

Gail,  {book  and  pencil  in  hand).  1950  francs  saved,  and  she  has 
been  here  four  months;  and  when  she  came  she  hadn't  a  sou  —  twice 
her  wages.  Well,  I'll  reserve  it.  Pauline,  put  it  all  there.  {Fointi 
to  table.) 

Pauline.  The  cents  also,  sir?    {Goes  to  table,) 
Gail.  Everything  —  all.    Put  it  all  there. 


BOUQUET. 


17 


Pauline.  Here  it  is,  sir.  (^Spils  money  from  pitcher  into 
drawer,  and  exit,  Bic.  picks  up  what  money  has  fallen  on  table 
and  floor,  Gail.,  calculating,  crosses,  k.,  and  they  are  on  each 
side  of  table,) 

Gail,  (figuring).  How  much  does  that  make,  in  all  —  that  makes 
9823  francs  45  centimes.  I  must  carry  her  that.  Haven't  you  any 
more  money  about  you  ? 

Bic,  (sitting  r.  of  table).   Listen  to  me.    I  hate  you. 

Gail,  (still figuring).  So  you  told  me;  but  that  is  all  reserved. 
I  keep  that  back  along  with  the  cook's  savings. 

Bic,  (grandly).  I  hate  you.  But  I  cannot  see  a  gentleman  in 
such  perplexity  without  doing  all  I  can  to  extricate  him.  (Rises, 
and  takes  piece  of  money  from  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat.) 

Gail,  (aside).  I  knew  he  had  something  more. 

Bic.  (passes  piece).  There,  take  it. 

Gail,  I  was  sure  of  it.  (Examines  piece.)  What  is  this  — 
twenty  sous  ? 

Bic,  (nobly),  A  piece  with  a  hole  in  it  —  a  keepsake  —  and  I  give 
it  to  you. 

Gail,  Well,  that  makes  9824  francs  45  centimes.  (Puts  the  sum 
into  his  handkerchief.  —  The  money  ought  to  be  composed  of  the 
oddest  kind  of  money.)  I  will  carry  her  this ;  and  if  she  is  not  satis- 
fied, I  will  offer  her  your  watch.  [JExit,  c,  with  money. 

Enter  Jennie,  r.,  dressed  to  go  to  her  aunt, 
Jennie.  Is  he  gone  ? 

Bic,  (who  has  picked  up  hats,  and  replaced  them  on  table).  Come 
in,  madame,  come  in.  Have  no  fear.  We  need  trouble  ourselves 
no  longer.    I  have  lent  him  money. 

Jennie.  Where  is  he  now  ? 

Bic.  Need  you  ask  ? 

Jennie,  Again ! ! ! 

Bic,  He  took  a  large  sum  of  money  —  bank-notes,  gold,  silver, 
and  my  twenty  sous  piece — wrapped  them  all  in  a  handkerchief, 
and  carried  them  all  to  her. 

Jennie,  (pulling  on  gloves  furiously).  To  my  aunt's  immedi- 
ately.   You  will  conduct  me  there,  sir  ? 

Bic,  O,  certainly ;  with  pleasure.  Where  does  she  live,  madame  ? 

Jennie,  At  Rambouillet. 

Bic,  At  Rambouillet?  (Suddenly  recollects  that  he  has  no  money.) 
0,  goodness ! 
Jennie,  Well,  what  is  the  matter. 

Bic,  (in  despair).  Just  my  luck.  For  once  in  my  life  I  have  a 
chance  to  run  away  with  a  married  woman,  and  —  I've  lent  the  hus- 
band all  my  money. 

Jennie.  What  did  you  say,  sir  ? 

Bic,  But  that  makes  no  difference.  We  will  walk;  and  when  we 
are  tired  we  will  take  turns  in  carrying  each  other,  so  that  one  of  us 
will  be  resting  all  the  time. 
2 


IS 


BOUQUET. 


Enter  Gail,  with  a  cap  under  his  arm, 

Gail,  (to  audience).  She  refused  the  watch.  She  has  some  good 
traits  left. 

Bic.  (taking  cap  from  him).  Allow  me  to  relieve  you,  sir.  I 
will  put  it  with  the  others. 

Gail,  (astonished).  What's  that? 

Bic.  There  must  be  a  hat  factory  up  stairs.  (Examines  cap,  and 
puts  it  with  others.) 
Jennie.  Another  one ! 

Bic.  Well,  it's  all  the  same  to  me.  I've  sworn  never  to  love 
more. 

Gail,  (to  Jennie).  And  where  are  you  going  now,  my  dear? 
Jennie  (dignified).  I  am  going  to  my  aunt's.    This  gentleman 
will  accompany  me. 

Gail.  This  gentleman? 

Jennie.  Yes,  sir  —  the  only  protector  I  have  left. 
Gail,  (amiably),  But  he  cannot  accompany  you.  since  they  are 
•xpecting  him  up  stairs. 
Bic.  Expecting  me  ? 

Gail,  (low  to  Bic).  And  this  time  I  swear  I  will  not  disturb  you 
again. 

Bic.  Waiting  for  me  ?  What  strange  people  we  men  are.  Now 
that  she's  waiting  for  me,  I've  no  desire  to  go.  (Looks  at  watch.) 
Twenty  minutes  after  twelve.  I  think  the  best  thing  I  can  do  now 
is  to  take  a  carriage  and  go  home  to  bed.  Yes  —  (saluting  with 
Gail.'s  hat,  to  Gail.)  —  I  was  going  to  take  your  hat  again  —  the 
force  of  habit.  (Takes  his  own  hat.)  Once  more,  adieu.  Remem- 
ber me  —  I'll  remember  you. 

Gail.  Good  night,  sir.  (Exit,  Bic,  c.  —  Gail.,  passes  him  out. 
—  Jennie  crosses,  l.) 

Gail,  (near  JBi<(mE) .  Well,  Jennie,  dear. 

Jennie.  Well,  wliat? 

Gail,  (caressing).  You  heard  what  the  gentleman  said.  It's 

twenty  minutes  after  twelve,  and   ^ 

Jennie.  After  what  has  passed,  do  you  dare  hope? 
Gail.  Do  you  really  mean  to  leave  me? 

Jennie.  I  don't  wish  to  make  any  scene,  because  it  spoils  my 
complexion  to  weep.    But  as  for  pardoning  —  never  I 
Gail.  Never  ? 

Jennie.  Never!    Never!!  Never!!! 

Gail,  (coaxing).  Never  is  a  long  time,  and  

Jennie.  Well,  there,  I  want  to  be  good,  and  I  will  forgive  you 

when  

Gail.  When  what? 

Jennie  (Isiughing).  When  you  bring  me  back  th  is  bouquet  —  this 

famous  bouquet  —  which  has  cost  you  

Gail,  (bitterly).  10,000  francs. 
Jennie.  10,200  francs,  my  dear. 


BorguBT. 


19 


Oa4l.  Yes  —  that's  very  true.  I  forgot  the  200.   (Door  hell  rings 
violently.) 
Jennie.  Who  can  that  be  now? 

Bic.  appears  at  the  door^  the  bouquet  in  his  hand. 

Bie,  Here's  the  bouquet  I    Here's  the  bouquet ! 

Gail.  The  bouquet?    Yes.    Come  in,  come  in. 

Bic.  (entering).  I  declare,  if  this  story  should  be  related  in  any 
paper,  nobody  would  believe  it  —  and  still  it's  the  truth.  A  coach- 
man was  passing  the  door  

Gail.  QooMng  at  bouquet).  Just  permit  me  to  see  the  letter.  It 
is  there.    You  may  go  on  now,  sir. 

Bic.  A  coachman  was  passing  the  door.  I  stopped  him,  and  told 
him  to  take  me  home.  "  If  it's  all  the  same  to  you,"  said  he, 
'*  would  you  like  an  adventure  ?  Let  us  walk  up  and  down  before 
this  house."  His  language  made  me  suspicious  —  the  more  so  that, 
while  speaking,  the  coachman  pressed  to  his  heart,  and  covered 
with  kisses,  a  bouquet  that  I  seemed  to  remember.  '*  Where  did 
you  get  those  flowers? "  said  I  to  him,  in  tones  of  authority.  **  Just 
now  a  lady  threw  them  to  me  out  of  the  window."  He  had 
scarcely  finished,  than  I  seized  the  bouquet,  and  rang  at  your  door. 
Now,  sir,  take  it. 

Gail,  (takes  bouquet).  The  letter  I  Here  it  is  —  attached  with  a 
pin.   Young  what's-his-name  gives  a  great  deal  of  money  to  women 

—  but  he  is  orderly  in  his  habits. 
Jennie.  Quick,  my  dear,  quick ! 

Gail,  (talcing  letter,  and  giving  bouquet  to  Bic.)*  Mademoisselle 
Antonia  Brunet "  —  that  s  the  one.   (Opens  the  letter.)  How's  this  ? 

—  no  money.  (Reading.)  *'  My  dear  girl,  I  am  glad  that  you  applied 
o  me  for  the  10,000  francs,  but  unfortunately  I  cannot  send  them  at 
present.  I  regret  —  "  (Furious.)  And  this  man  calls  himself  a 
gentleman.  A  lady  applies  to  him  for  10,000  francs,  and  he  doesn't 
send  them.  (Reading.)  I  regret  it  exceedingly  —  "  (Spoken.)  And 
I,  too.  (Reading.)  ''But  to  show  you  that  I  still  think  of  you,  I 
send  " 

Jennie.  You  see  he  sends  something. 

Gail,  (finishing  the  letter).  "I  send  you  a  front  seat  for  the 
theatre." 

Jennie.  Just  what  I  wanted  this  evening. 
Gail.  Yes ;  but  where  is  this  ticket  ? 

Bic.  (taking  ticket  from  bouquet) .  Here  —  attached  with  a  pin. 
Gail.  He  don't  send  any  money  to  women  —  but  his  habits  are 
orderly. 

Bic.    (examining  ticket).    Unfortunately  it's  for  this  evening, 
and  it's  now  a  half  hour  after  midnight. 
Jennie.  O,  dear ;  how  unfortunate  I 

Gail,  (takes  ticket,  and  examines  it  at  arm^s  length).  10,000 
francs. 

Bic.  (to  Gait  ,  and  glancing  at  Jennie).  I  will  not  profit  by  your 


90 


BOUQUET. 


misfortune  to  disturb  you,  sir,  but  you  owe  me  1543  francs  25  ceu* 
times.  Now,  if  you  wish,  you  may  pay  me  twenty  sous  a  day. 
Every  day,  for  1543  days  and  a  quarter,  I  will  visit  madame,  and  she 
shall  give  me  a  franc  at  each  visit. 

Gail,  {gayly).  You  are  pleased  to  be  facetious,  sir.  You  shall 
have  your  money  to-morrow.  (^To  Jennie.)  To-morrow  evening, 
my  love,  we  will  go  to  the  theatre. 

Jennie,  But  you  can't  afford  it  after  this  expense. 

Gail,  Well,  it's  only  10,000  francs,  after  all.  {Enthusiastically,') 
If  the  news  continues  to  be  bad  for  a  week  I  can  easily  regain  that. 

Bic.  Till  to-morrow,  my  friend.  [^False  exit. 

Gail,  Till  to-morrow.  But  one  thing,  my  friend,  I  hope  you 
will  promise  me. 

Bic.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Gail,  Promise  me  not  to  return  again  this  evening. 
Bic,  I  promise  you.   But  there  is  still  one  thing  more.  There 
are  two  gentlemen  waiting  outside. 
Gail,  Two  gentlemen? 

Bic,  Yes,  two  gentlemen  —  who  have  just  left  up  stairs,  and 
who  cannot  go  away,  because  their  hats  are  here.  I  entered 
alone,  but,  if  you  wish,  I  will  call  them  in. 

Gail,  No,  no. 

Jennie  takes  gray  hat  and  cap^  and  carries  them  to  Bic. 

Bic,  Thanks.  And  to  repay  you  for  the  pleasure  of  the  evening, 
I  shall  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  sending  madame  a  Bouquet.' 


BicoQUET  (with  hats  in  hand)* 


BOWLED  OUT; 

OB, 

A  BIT  OF  BRUMMAGEM. 
%  Jfam, 

IN"  ojsjb:  act. 


BT 

li.   T.  CRAVEV 


BOWLED  OUT. 


CHABAGTEBB. 

Royal  Princesses  Theatre 
?  "^douj  July  9,  1860. 

Mr.  Ezekiel  Yeakner,  an  Orator  Mr.  H.  Widdecomb. 

Arlington,  a  Mu»%c  Master   Mr.  R.  Cathcart. 

Bob  Quorms,  a  Fainter  Mr.  H.  Saker. 

Kidman,  a  Fisherman  Mr.  CoUett. 

Mrs.  Brefton  .  .   Mr*?.  Weston, 

Marian,  her  adoptea  jjaugfiter    .  .  *             .  Ansa  Rose  Leclercq. 
Barah  Ann,  her  Mai'     ,  .   .  Mfei  Carlotta  Leciercq 


0CENB:  Interior  of  a  VUta,  near  a  Country  T4nio%. 
Time  in  representation^  50  minutes. 
Costumes:  Modern* 


BOWLED 


OUT. 


SCENE.  —  Jl  handsomely  furnished  apartment.  French  windows, 
c,  through  which  are  seen  a  garden  and  a  country  town  in  the 
distance.  Buffet,  piano,  sofa,  large  arm-chair, door,  with 
practicable  lock,  l.  1  E.  —  door,  R.  2  e.  -  •  a  panel  on  the  L.  d., 
newly  painted, 

Mrs.  Brefton  discovered  seated,  R.  —  Sarah  Ann,  a  servant, 
standing  before  her,  l.  c» 

Mrs.  B.   Tis  useless  talking,  Sarah !    I  will  not  put  up 

"^^^Lrah.  Well,  mum,  you  seem  to  have  put  down  against  me 
everything  that  you  could. 

Mrs.  B.   You  really  are  not  to  be  borne. 

Sarah.  But  as  I  was  born  twenty  year  ago,  you  can't  help 
yourself,  mum.  . 

Mrs.  B.  You've  broken  my  whole  service  or  crockery,  one 
piece  after  another. 

Sarah.   You're  laboring  under  a  mistake,  mum ! 

Mrs.  B.  Well,  you  or  I  must  have  done  it.  Perhaps  you  in- 
fer that  J  did?  ,  ,^ 

Sarah.   The  old  cat  broke  the  better  half.  I  don't  mean  you, 

mum.  ,      -.       ^.  4. 4. 

Mrs.  B.   I'm  sorry  to  see  you  descend  to  deception,  —  not  to 

say  falsehood.  ,  ^  , 

Sarah.  No,  mum,  —  you'd  better  not  say  that,  mum,  cause 
I  happen  to  have  a  friend  who's  acquainted  with  a  lawyer's 

^^^Mrs.  B.  Even  your  breakages  I  might  look  upon  as  unavoid- 
able accidents.  But  I  have  other  and  more  serious  faults  to 
find  with  you.  ,  -,  ,^ 

Sarah.    It  wouldn't  be  you,  mum,  if  you  hadn  t. 

Mrs.  B.    That's  one  of  them,  —  you  answer. 

Sarah.    Well,  mum,     if  I  answer,  what  more  do  you  want  J 

Mrs.  B.  Your  levity  —  your  dress  —  your  deportment,  are  all 
objectionable  to  me;  and  you've  acquired  such  a  romantic  way 
of  expressing  yourself,  that  I'm  disgusted. 


4 


BOWLED  OUT. 


Sarah.    In  fact,  there's  do  pleasing  you,  nohow. 

Mrs,  B.  I  have  also  reason  to  know  you  have  formed  a 
connection  in  the  town  with  a  young  man ;  and  I  gave  you  dis- 
tinctly to  understand  I  allowed  no  followers. 

Sarah.  Well,  mum,  perhaps  you'll  put  down  nature,  and 
change  the  order  o'  things  altogether ;  and  since  you  touch  me 
on  that  point,  I  think  it's  high  time  to  speak.  Are  servants 
supposed  to  be  without  hearts  ?  I  should  like  to  haye  tha': 
properly  understood.  Does  the  scrubbing-brush  blight  the 
'onest  'and  which  'olds  it,  so  that  it  cannot  be  bestowed  on  some 
worthy  hobject  of  the  hopposite  sect? 

Mrs.  B.    Gracious,  Sarah !  your  h's ! 

Sarah.  Drat  the  h's.  I'm  too  exasperated!  When  you 
agreed  to  give  me  twelve  pounds  a  year,  tea,  and  sugar,  and 
half  a  pint  o'  small  beer  a  day,  did  you  suppose  you  bought  all 
my  affection  in  a  dried-up  state?  If  you  did,  you  made  a  slight 
mistake.  Nature  will  be  nature ;  and  when  I  see  you  encourage 
Mr.  Yearner  to  make  love  to  your  adopted  daughter,  Miss 
Marion,  I  say  to  myself,  What's  sauce  for  goose,  is  sauce 
for  pig."  Now,  mum,  I've  spoke  my  mind  modestly,  but 
fearfully,  and  courageously. 

Mrs.  B.    Enough !    I  give  you  — 

Sarah.  Thank  you,  mum.  I  give  you  an  hour's  warning  — 
I  shall  go,  mum,  directly. 

Mrs.  B.  To  your  ruin.  I  anticipate  it.  However  I  will  give 
you  a  character  only  on  one  condition ;  that  you  listen  to  the 
salutary  advice  of  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Yearner,—  that  excellent 
young  man  who  has  such  an  extraordinary  talent  for  extempo- 
raneous discourse,  and  who  is  now  approaching. 

Fnter  Yearner,  dressed  in  methodistical  style,  l.  d. 

My  dear  brother  in  sentiment,  I  rejoice  to  see  you  so  oppor- 
tunely.   Your  presence  was  needed  to  — 

Yearner.  Minister  to  the  welfare  of  erring  humanity,—  that 
is  my  vocation,  beloved  sister  Brefton. 

Mrs.  B.  Exactly.  This  poor  girl  is,  I  fear,  in  a.  perilous  con- 
dition of  mind! 

Sarah.    Gammon ! 

Yearner.  She  exclaimeth  Gammon !  "  Alas !  alas  !  oh,  that 
her  eyes  may  be  opened ! 

Sarah.  Well,  you're  enough  to  make  any  one  stare,  between 
you! 

Mrs.  B.  (r.)  She  is  about  to  cast  herself  on  the  world  —  to 
unite  herself,  perchance,  to  some  man  of  friv  olity. 

(Yearner,  c,  turns  up  his  eyes  and  groans.) 
Sarah,  (l.)    Taken  poorly,  sir? 

Mrs.  B.  And  with  her  erring  notions  —  but,  confiding  as  I 
always  do  in  you,  I  have  before  acquainted  you  with  her  faults. 


BOWLSTD  OUT. 


5 


Speak  to  her  before  she  goes,  so  that  the  warning  voice  may 
reach  her  heart,  and  she  will  not  leave  without  food  for  serious 
meditation.  ^  ^ 

Sarah.  I  should  like  my  dinner  before  I  go,  if  that's  what 
you  mean. 

Yearner  (putting  a  great  chair  before  him,  and  leaning  over  the 
back,  like  a  pulpit).  I  shall  divide  my  discourse  into  seventeen 
heads. 

•  Sarah,   What  a  nobby  discourse  it  will  be ! 

Yearner.  Firstly,  I  shall  discuss  the  all-important  question 
which  it  behoves  every  one  to  ask  — the  great  — the  absorbing 
question,  "  What's  to  become  of  us  all?  " 

Sarah.  That's  what  the  picnic  party  said  when  they  saw  the 
mad  bull.  .  ^  .  n 

Yearner.  Ah,  the  heart,  my  young  friend,  is  a  mad  bull 
which  we  have  to  guard  against;  it  tosses  us  hither  and 
thither  and  then,  where  are  we  ? 

Sarah.    Topsy-turvy,  I  should  think. 

Mrs.  B.    Beautiful ! 

Yearner.  Ah,  let  us  conquer  the  heart,  the  wicked  heart,  the 
naughty  heart !  let  us  mortify  the  flesh ! 

Sarah.  Doctor  Febril  said  that  when  flesh  mortified  it  was  a 
dangerous  symptom. 

Yearner.  The  heart  is  a  bull,  and  vanity  is  its  horn ;  yea,  a 
horn  that  driveth  to  destruction.  Now,  let  us  consider,  what 
is  a  horn?   There  are  horns  of  various  sorts. 

Sarah.    A  French  horn,  for  instance. 

Yearner.  There  is  the  short  horn  and  the  long  horn,  the 
curly  horn  and  the  straight  horn,  the  horn  that  goes  this  way 
and  the  horn  that  goes  that  way.  Oh,  'tis  an  enticing  horn  that 
points  to  the  path  of  pleasure !  We  rush  where  it  points  ;  we 
are  engulfed ;  we  are  lost ! 

Sarah.  Well,  I  should  ask  the  first  pleeceman  I  came  across 
to  direct  me. 

Yearner.  We  are  lost!  Oh,  then  we  return  to  the  great  ques- 
tion, "  What  is  to  become  of  us?  " 
Sarah.    Is  that  an  end  of  the  tale  ? 

Yearner.   Now  for  my  second  head,    What  are  we  to  do?  " 

Mrs.  B.  One  moment,  brother;  I  have  a  call  to  make  in  the 
town.  Finish  your  discourse  with  this  benighted  girl,  and  by 
that  time  I  shall  have  returned.  {Aside.)  What  a  charming 
speaker  he  is !  Oh,  that  I  could  take  it  all  down  in  short-hand  j 
for,  as  he  truly  says,  "  What  is  to  become  of  us  ? " 

\_Exit,  L.  c. 

Yearner.   Ah,  my  comely  sister,  what  are  we  to  do  ? 
Sarah.    I  give  it  up.   I  can't  stop  guessing  your  conundrums 
—  I  want  to  pack  up  my  box  —  that's  what  I'm  to  do ! 
Yearner.   You  are  pretty,  —  yea,  comely  to  the  eye  as  the 
1* 


6 


BOWLED  OUT* 


fountain  to  the  parched  wayfarer.  An  ample  figure  —  ah,  and 
a  neat  foot.   Trust  to  my  guidance,  and  then  — 

Sarah  {mocking  Mm),  What  is  to  become  of  me?  {A  single 
knock  is  heard,)  There's  a  knock  at  the  door.  I  suppose  I 
may  as  well  be  magnarainous,  and  answer  it,  though  I  am 
going  away ;  so  I  leave  you  to  brush  up  your  second  head,  and 
find  out  what  we're  to  do !  [Exit  l.  1  e. 

Tearner  (somewhat  altering  his  manner) ,  I  could  well  wish 
that  damsel  to  remain  as  my  wife's  abigail  when  I  am  united  to 
Marian.  I  love  to  look  on  the  fair  works  of  creation,  which, 
like  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  are  manifestly  designed,  not  for 
one,  but  the  universal  eye.  Oh,  how  goodly  is  virtue;  or 
rather,  how  good  is  the  character  for  virtue !  It  shall  win  for 
me  a  wife  with  a  goodly  inheritance.  Oh,  how  goodly  is 
money  I 

Be-enter  Sarah,  l.  1  e.,  with  Bob  Quorms,  a  painter, 

Sarah.  This  is  the  new  panel  that's  to  be  grained  maple, 
like  the  others. 

JBoh,    All  right ;  I  won't  be  long  about  it. 

Sarah.    Never  mind  this  gentleman ;  he's  only  a  lecturer. 

Bob  (looking  at  Yearner).  Lor' !  why,  he  used  to  hold  forth 
in  the  fields  at  Weymouth. 

Yearner.   You  mistake,  my  friend;  it  was  not  I. 

Bdb.  Then  it  was  a  fellow  very  much  like  you ;  but  he  used 
to  get  as  tight  as  a  drum,  and  — 

Tearner,  ItwasnotI!  (To  Sarah.)  Where  is  Miss  Mar- 
ian? 

Sarah.    In  the  fiower-garden. 

Yearner.  I  will  betake  myself  thither.  (Tb  Bob.)  You  are 
an  operative.  In  the  hour  of  meditation  read  this  pamphlet. 
(Offers  a  tract.)  'Tis  entitled  "  What  is  to  become  of  us  all?  " 
and  is  addressed  more  particularly  to  painters  and  glaziers. 

Bob.  Blow  your  tracks  I  I  read  one  once,  and  it  made  me 
quite  uncomfortable.  Talk  about  conscience  pricking  you,  — 
why,  sir,  mine  was  running  a  spit  through  me  all  day  long. 

Yearner,  Happy  effect!  Read  on,  read  on,  and  tremble! 
Oh,  how  goodly  it  is  to  tremble !       \^Exit  at  window,  c.  to  r. 

Sarah,  OBob! 

Bob,    0  Sarah  Ann  I 

Sarah.   Have  you  turned  painter,  then? 

Bob.  I  know  something  of  the  trade,  and  as  I  wanted  to 
stay  in  the  town  to  be  in  your  vicissitude  I  went  and  offered 
my  services  to  Turps,  in  the  market-place,  and  strange  enough, 
the  very  first  job  he  puts  me  on  is  this  —  a  graining  job— • 
w^hich  I  don't  understand. 

Sarah,  But,  Bob,  I'm  going  away;  I've  discharged  myself, 
and  go  off  in  an  hour. 


BOWLED  OUT. 


7 


Bob.   You  do?  you  don't! 

Sarah.  Don't  I?  I  do!  And  now,  Mr.  Robert  Quorms,  as 
i  liave  no  parents  here  to  do  it  for  me,  I  must  ask  it  plainly, 
What  are  vour  intentions  ?  " 

Bob.  Strictly  honorable,  I  assure  you.  Just  hold  my  paint- 
pot  while  I  swear  it. 

Sarah.  You'll  allow  for  circumstances;  but  do  you  mean 
matrimony  soon  f 

Bob.  Matrimony  I  mean,  as  soon  as  circumstances  will 
allow.  O  Sarah !  "when  first  I  met  you  in  the  butcher's  shop 
buying  kidneys  to  make  gravy  of,  I  felt  a  sensation.  My 
dreams  that  night  were  of  kidneys ;  I  ate  nothing  but  kidney 
potatoes  for  a  week  afterwards ;  visions  of  kidneys  were  con- 
stantly floating  before  my  eyes  —  in  their  own  gravy. 

Sarah.  I  dare  say.  But  who  and  what  are  you?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know.  There's  something  romantic  in  your 
conversation  and  appearance.  (Turns  him  round,  showing 
paint  on  his  trousers.)  Where  did  you  come  from?  {Theatri- 
cally.)   Mysterious  being,  who  and  what  are  you? 

Bob.  Sarah,  I'm  a  young  man  who  knows  what's  right,  and 
is  always  trying  to  do  it,  bat  somehow  or  other,  circumstances 
are  always  shoving  me  out  of  the  right  path,  and  then  my  con- 
science begins  to  work ;  and  you've  no  idea  how  my  conscience 
does  work  when  it  begins,  —  turns  my  bosom  into  a  regular 
workshop,  and  goes  in  for  overtime,  —  a  twenty-four  hour 
movement. 

Sarah.  But  you  haven't  perforated  anything  wrong,  have 
you?  ,  _  , 

Bob.  Oh,  I'm  always  a-doing  something  wrong,  —  can't  help 
it.  I've  done  wrong  to  deceive  my  master  and  undertake  a 
graining  job  when  I  know  I'm  not  up  to  the  knocker.  I'm  a 
rogue  in  grain,  and  my  conscience  has  got  another  job  come  in 
to  work  at.  ,    ,  .  , 

Sarah.  Well,  Robert,  you  must  relate  to  me  all  that  relates 
to  yourself  another  time.  I  must  go  and  pack  up  my  box,  for 
missus  has  been  so  pert  that  I  cannot  look  over  it.  I  don't 
wish  to  be  rash  in  such  an  affair,  but  I  put  it  to  you,  as  a  man 
and  a  gentleman  — can  we  be  married  to-morrow? 

Bob.  Well,  in  these  off-hand  little  affairs,  you  see,  cash  is  in 
some  degree  necessary.  Now,  as  a  man,  —  to  say  nothing  of 
the  gentleman,  —  I'm  concerned  to  say  that,  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, I'm  not  qualified  to  vote. 

Sarah.   Can't  you  dispose  of  your  valuables  ? 

Bob.  My  valuables  are  of  no  value,  that's  the  worst  of  it; 
but,  Sarah  Ann,  I  possess  a  secret  which  is  perhaps  worth 
something. 

Sarah.  Mysterious  and  unscrutable  being,  what  do  you 
mean? 

Bob.    My  uncle  on  my  mother's  side  was  a  rascal. 


s 


BOWLED  OUT. 


Sarah.    Lor  \ 

Boh.  Though  I  don't  think  he's  so  bad  as  he  used  to  be. 
However,  two  year  ago,  I  happened  to  come  across  this  Uncle 
Jack,  and  while  lying  in  his  hut  one  night,  I  heard  him  teli 
some  friend  of  his  part  of  a  dreadful  secret. 

Sarah.    Merciless  powers ! 

Boh.  That  set  my  conscience  a- working  and  a-prlcking,  and 
a-spitting  me,  and  that  brought  me  into  this  town. 

Sarah.  What  was  it?  Mysterious  creature,  tell  me,  — what 
was  it,  —  mur-derf  Oh,  speak,  or  see  me  fall  sensible  at  your 
boots,  —  was  it  murder  ? 

Boh.  No;  stealing  a  sleeping  infant,  —  a  kidnapping  case. 
Sixteen  years  ago,  he  stole  a  child  from  a  Mrs.  Brefton.  Now 
d'ye  catch  a  glimmer?    {Pokes  her  with  the  paint-hrush.) 

Sarah.  Gracious !  why,  my  mistress  lost  a  beauteous  infant 
sixteen  years  ago,  and  adopted  Miss  Marian  to  supply  its 
place. 

Boh. '  Where  the  real  child  is  now,  I  don't  know,  —  most 
likely  dead  and  gone.  I  couldn't  get  at  that,  but  I  got  at  this, 
which  I  heard  him  say  he  kept  in  an  old  trunk.  (Pulls  out 
handhill  and  reads.)  Fifty  pounds  reward.  Child  lost.  Any 
one  who  will  give  such  information  as  may  lead  to  the  recovery 
of  a  child  three  years  old,  shall  receive  the  above  reward.  The 
said  child  is  named  Lucinda ;  is  marked  on  the  left  wrist  wi^"^ 
a  mole,"  and  so  on.  Apply  to  the  police  office,  or  to  Mrs. 
Brefton,  the  Hoe,  Plymouth."  Now,  my  conscience  set  to 
pricking  and  working  till  I  stole  this,  and  a  little  frock  that  the 
child  had  on  when  taken,  and  which  was  also  in  the  box ;  and 
then  I  began  tracing  out  Mrs.  Brefton,  till  at  last  I  tracked  her 
down  here,  and  down  I  came  with  a  heart  as  big  as  a  bullock's, 
and  here  I  lost  it  in  a  butcher's  shop. 

Sarah.    And  what  do  you  mean  to  do  in  the  matter  now  ? 

Boh.  Well,  I  did  mean,  when  I  had  found  the  mother,  to  try 
and  find  the  daughter,  and  bring  'em  together.  There  would 
have  been  a  grand  climacterix,  —  the  Times  would  give  me  a 
leader,  —  you'd  see  Bob  Quorms  figuring  in  The  Lives  of  Be- 
markahle  Men.  Fancy,  Bob  Quorms,  a  remarkable  man,  m 
monthly  parts. 

Sarah  (mysteriously).  KobertI 

Boh.    Sarah  Ann ! 

Sarah.    My  brain  has  given  birth  to  an  immense  idea. 

Boh.    ril  father  it,  if  it's  like  me. 

Sarah.    This  child,  you  say,  is  probably  dead. 

Boh.    No,  I  didn't  say  probably.    I  said  most  likely. 

Sarah.  At  all  events,  she's  not  likely  to  turn  up.  Mrs.  Bref- 
ton's  rich ;  —  there's  a  fortune  waiting  for  us,  —  Pll  be  the 
daughter ! 

Boh.    Yon  ? 

Sarah.    I'll  do  it.    I  know  how  they  do  these  things  ir 


BOWLED  OUT. 


9 


novels.  I  take  in  the  London  Journal,  aniJ  we'll  take  in  Mrs. 
Brefton.    Get  me  the  frock.  ^ 

Bob.  It  won't  fit  yon,  bless  you;  it  was  made  for  a  cnild 
three  year  old ;  it'll  be  up  to  there ! 

Sarah.    Never  mind,  I  want  it. 

Bob.    But  my  conscience  — 

Sarah.  In  one  word,  if  ever  you  hope  for  the  consumption 
of  our  union,  assist  me  in  this  plot.  I  shall  fancy  I'm  acting 
a  play.   Now,  sir,  do  you  love  me,  or  do  you  not? 

Bob.    Here  I  am,  the  victim  of  circumstances  again  — I  con- 

sent.  ,  .  , 

Sarah.   Then  you  must  tell  me  all  the  particulars  you 

know. 
Bob.    But  the  mole  — 

Sarah.   Aint  you  a  painter?   Can't  you  paint  one  on  me ? 
Bob.   Paint  you!    I  aint  a  hanimal  painter.   I'm  an  'ouse 
painter.  .  ,  _ 

Sarah.    Surely  vou  can  make  a  spot  on  my  wrist  t 
Bob.    A  little  oak  color,  —  I've  got  it  here. 

Enter  Marian,  folloived  by  Yearner,  c.  from  r. 

Marian.  Don't  tease,  Mr.  Yearner.  You  never  let  me  have 
a  moment's  peace.    Sarah,  who  is  this? 

Sarah.  The  painter,  miss,  come  to  grain  this  new  panel; 
but  there's  a  job  for  him  downstairs  as  well,  so  he  can  do  that 
first.    Come  along,  Mr.  Painter.  l^^^i  l.  1  e. 

Bob.    Oh,  ah !  my  conscience !    What  a  pricking  sensation ! 

lExit,  following  Sarah,  l.  1  e. 

Yearner.  Now  to  discuss  my  seventh  head.  When,  dam- 
damsel,  are  we  to  be  united  in  the  bonds  of  wedlock? 

3Iarian  {aside).  Never,  I  hope!  {Aloud.)  Now,  my  good 
Mr.  Yearner —  ^  ^ 

Yearner.    Call  me  Ezekiel,  —  I  shall  love  to  hear  you  call  me 

jEizekiel  ' 
Marian.   Well,  then,  —  Ezekiel  I 
Yearner.  Oh! 

Marian.   What's  the  matter? 

Yearner.   I  groaned  with  pleasure.  ^ 

Marian.  Then  perhaps  you'll  laugh  with  pam  when  I  tell 
you  that  Pm  in  no  hurry  to  call  you,  or  any  man,  husband.  To 
tell  you  the  candid  truth,  I  am  not  in  love  with  you. 

Yearner.  That  matters  not,  maiden.  It  will  come  — verily 
it  will  come  — and  think  (looking  round),  the  good  Mrs.  Bref- 
ton desires  it.  Mrs.  Brefton  will  give  you  a  portion  — Mrs. 
Brefton  will  die  — she  waxeth  weak  already  — Mrs.  Brefton 
will  leave  us  wealth.  All  this  will  you  utterly  forfeit  if  you  do 
not  espouse  Ezekiel  Yearner. 

Marian.    Can  that  hope  influence  you  ?  . 

Yearner.    Lucre!    Mammon!    No,  I  value  it  not;  it  is  de- 


16 


BOWLED  OUT. 


testable;  but  we  may  as  well  have  it,  nevertheless.  No,  1 
would  gratify  my  dear  sister  Brefton  with  the  sight  of  two 
innocent  hearts  (both  dear  to  her)  linked  together.  Oh,  what 
a  goodly  sight  it  will  be  when  we  are  linked  together ! —the 
rose  and  the  lily  shall  not  blend  more  harmoniously  than  Eze- 
kiel  Yearner  and  Marian  Kidman. 

Marian,  Which  is  the  rose,  and  which  is  the  lily,  Mr.  Gar- 
dener? I'm  no  great  beauty,  and  I'm  sure  you're  none !  A  white 
neckcloth !    I  abominate  white  neckcloths  I 

Yearner.  I  will  encompass  me  in  a  red  one  to  pleasure  thee, 
—  yea,  a  scarlet  choker  with  spots. 

Marian,   Straight  hair  I   I  hate  straight  hair  I 

Yearner,  I  will  have  it  curled,— yea,  greased  with  the 
grease  of  the  bear. 

Marian,  Oh,  you're  oily  enough  already.  But  I  should 
choose  a  man  of  *^he  world ;  you  are  too  methodistical  for  my 
taste ! 

Yearner,  My  talent  for  holding  forth  is  vast.  To  gratify 
thee  I  will  change  my  way  of  life.  I  will  become  a  mover  of 
the  multitude  —  a  political  orator  I  Fancy,  oh,  fancy  your  be- 
loved husband  a  senator,  on  his  fancy  legs  —  I  mean,  fancy  him 
on  his  legs,  —  "  Hear !  "  and  cheers ! 

Marian  (aside).  I  can  fancy  you  anywhere  rather  than  with 
me !  \Aloud,)  Sit  down,  Mr.  Yearner,  and  I  will  appeal  to 
you.  {They  sit.)  Mrs.  Brefton  has  been  kind  to  me  — very 
kind;  I  was  a  poor,  ignorant  girl  when  she  adopted  me.  She 
has  educated  me  liberally,  and  I  have  been  happy, —perhaps 
more  happy  before  we  knew  you;  but  that  has  arisen  from 
your  mistake,  in  thinking  that  I  might  be  led  to  love  you.  1 
never  can  !  Now  if  you  act  up  to  your  professed  principles,  as 
a  good  man,  —  and  I  hope  you  are  so,  —  abandon  a  suit  which 
amounts  to  persecution,  and  leave  me  free,  — to  respect  ycu 
with  a  grateful  heart. 

Yearner  {jumping  up).  Hang  your  grateful  heart!  Give 
you  up !  If  I  do,  may  I  be  —  accounted  unwise  I  {A  double 
knock  is  heard.)  Mrs.  Brefton  has  returned;  she  shall  tell  you 
her  determination  with  her  own  lips. 

Enter  Arlington,  l.  1  e.,  with  a  roll  of  music. 

Marian.  Here  is  my  music-master  I  You  will  allow  me  to 
take  my  music-lesson,  will  you  not. 

Arling,  Good-morning,  miss  I  I  am  rather  late  this  morn- 
ing, but  I  shall  have  pleasure  in  staying  an  extra  half  hour  to 
make  up  for  the  five  minutes  I  am  behind  time.  Oh,  is  this 
Yearner?  How  are  you,  Yearner?  I've  heard  of  you,  though 
I  never  had  the  what-d'-ye-call-it  of  seeing  you  before. 

Yearner,  Somewhat  free  for  a  jobbing  minstrel!  Here  is 
a  tract,  read  it;  it  is  addressed  more  particularly  to  fiddlers 


BOWLED  CUT, 


11 


and  piccolo  players,  with  a  few  arguments  for  backsliding 

t::0J]n  bones. 

Arling,  (doubling  Ms  Jisf).  And  here  is  a  pamphlet,  ad- 
dressed most  particularly  to  impertinent  and  meddling  hypo- 
crites, with  a  knock-down  argument  for  unwelcome  intruders. 

Yearner.  Oh  that  Mrs.  Brefton  were  here !  Oh  that  she 
would  permit  me  to  order  you  out  of  the  house ! 

Arling.  But  as  she  is  not  here,  permit  me  to  request  you  to 
^.eave  the  room,  while  I  give  Marian  —  I  mean  Miss  Kidman, 
her  lesson. 

Yearner,    What,  leave  you  with  — 

Arling    Yes  —  go  and  reflect  on  my  pamphlet.  {Shows  fist.) 

\_Exit  Yearner,  hurriedly,  r. 
And  is  it  to  such  a  creature  as  this  that  your  protectress  would 
aniteyou? 

Marian.    Arthur,  I  feel  that  I  can  never  submit  to  it !  Much 
as  I  love  Mrs.  Brefton,  my  repugnance  is  too  great  for  grati- 
tude even  to  set  aside.    What  shall  I  do  ? 
Arling,  (r.  c).  Read  this  song.  I  have  put  new  words  to  it. 
Marian  (l.  c).    What!  out  of  your  own  head?  How  clever  I 
Arling,    Say,  rather,  out  of  my  own  heart.    Read ! 
Marian  {reads),  "  Trust  to  me,  love,  I  am  here  — 
Trust  to  me,  love,  do  not  fear." 
Oh,  that's  very  pretty  —  so  simple ! 
Arling,    Yes,  there's  simplicity  about  it.    Go  on ! 
Marian  (reads),  ''Though  the  wicked  world  assail  ye, 
Timely  aid  shall  never  fail  ye ; 
Though  another  slimy  wooer. 
Vow  that  he  will  prove  the  truer  — " 

I  like  the  slimy  wooer ! 
Arling.   You  don't  mean  that  ? 

Marian,    I  mean  the  expression  is  good  —    slimy  wooer  I 
so  Tennysonian. 
Arling,   Think  so  ?   It's  better  as  you  go  on ! 
Marian,   And  all  out  of  your  own  head  too !  (Beads.) 

"  Turn  and  see  upon  his  knee, 
One  who  dies  for  love  of  thee ; 
Listen  —  frown  not  —  seal  his  bliss, 
And  his  pardon  with  a  kiss." 

How  nice !  that  comes  in  so  naturally ! 

(Turns  and  sees  Arlington  upon  his  knee  — he  seizes  her  hand^ 
and  kisses  it  rapturously  —  at  this  moment) 

Enter  Yearner,  followed  by  Mrs.  Brefton,  r. 

Yearner  (r.  c).  Ah,  Beelzebub!  Behold,  he  kisseth  hei 
hand !  He  is  the  wolf  in  the  fold.  He  would  devour  my  pet 
lamb! 


12 


BOWLED  OUT. 


ilfrs.  JS.  (rO-    Can  I  believe  my  eyes? 

Yearner,    Abomination  of  abominations  I    If  this  be  x>er- 
mitted,  what,  I  ask  —  oh,  what  is  to  become  of  us  all? 
Mrs.  B.   Marian,  speak.    What  have  you  to  say? 
Marian  (c,).   Nothing,  dear  mamma. 
Mrs.  B,    Fie,  fie ! 

Yearner,   Yea,  verily,  shameless  lamb  I 

Arling,  (l.).  Look  here,  sir.  I  do  not  permit  such  words  to 
this  lady  from  any  one  who  wears  male  attire.  Mrs.  Brefton, 
I  shall  not  attempt  any  excuse  for  the  fact  you  have  discovered, 
except  the  irresistible  charms  of  Miss  Marian.  I  love  her 
deeply  —  truly. 

Yearner,    Disgusting  disclosure !    O,  wicked  wolf  I 

Mrs,  B,  And  have  I  been  paying  you  for  three  months  fui 
this?   Have  I  taken  a  serpent  to  my  bosom? 

Yearner  {correcting  her).  Nay,  sister —  to  your  house  —  she 
speaks  figuratively. 

Mrs.  B.  But  leave  my  house  this  instant.  Mr.  Yearner,  open 
the  door  for  this  man  —  expel  him  if  he  hesitates. 

Yearner  (crosses  to  door,  l.,  opens  it  and  stands  ivith  the  handle 
in  his  hand).  Depart,  O  wolf,  from  the  fold  —  and  take  with 
you  this  pamphlet.  It  is  addressed  more  particularly  to 
wolves. 

(  Arlington  walks  coolly  up  to  him,  and  as  he  is  speaking,  takes 
him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  puts  him  out  at  the  door,  lock- 
ing it.) 

Arling,  Now,  dear  madam,  allow  me  to  talk  reasonably  to 
you. 

Marian.   Do,  dear  mamma.  ^  . 

Arling,  Would  you  thiflk  for  a  moment  of  sacrificing  aear 
Marian  to  that  sleeky  thing? 

Marian,    Don't,  dear  mamma.  ,    ,    ,  ..u 

Yearner  (outside).  I  hear  you.  Fm  sleeky!  Yea,  through 
the  key-hole.  ,  ^ 

Arling.  Your  money  is  all  that  he  covets.  As  for  you,  per- 
sonally, he  would,  to  expedite  his  views,  as  soon  give  you  a 
dose  of  prussic  acid  as  not.  (A  bump  is  heard  without,  l.) 

Yearner  {without).  Open  the  door,  I  have  fainted  —  yea,  I 
have  fainted  on  the  bottom  stair !    -  ^  .  n 

Mrs  B  I  am  speechless  with  horror  at  your  mahcious  aile-i 
nations.  Once  for  all,  if  Marian  rejects  my  dear  brother 
Yearner,  I  will  abandon  her  to  her  fate,  and  adopt  him  m  her 
place.  And  now  I  shall  open  this  door,  and  prevent  me  at  your 
peril !  (  Unlocks  and  opens  the  door,  L.) 

fYEARNER,  who  has  been  kneeling  without  at  the  key-hole,  falls  in, 
—  he  rises  as  Sarah,  gaudily  dressed  in  crinoline  and  feathers 
rushes  in,  l.) 


BOWLED  OUT.  ^  l3 

Sarah,   The  momentuous  moment  has  arrived  —  the  time  has 
come ! 

Mrs.  B.  For  you  to  leave,  I  suppose?  I  will  pay  you  your 
wages  by  and  by.  I  am  too  much  agitated  now.  Go  down- 
stairs, and  wait.    (Crosses  to  u.) 

Sarah  (l.).   Oh,  my  'art's  a-bustingi 

Mrs.  B.    Well,  if  you  regret  your  conduct,  and  wish  to 
stay  — 

Sarah.   Look  at  me,  dear,  beloved  old  individual !    Gaze  on 
me,  and  let  nature  do  the  rest ! 
Mrs.  B.    Are  you  mad? 

Sarah.  No,  I  am  not  mad  —  by  'evven,  I  am  not  mad  !  I've 
bottled  up  my  feelings  too  long.  The  wire  is  snapped,  and 
Guinness's  stout's  nothing  to  my  nevervessence !  Why  do  you 
think  I  so  long  put  up  with  your  impudence  ?  Because  I  loved 
you.  Why  did  I  dress  in  smart  bonnets  and  crinoline  ?  To  do 
you  credit.  Why  did  I  educate  my  mind,  and  take  in  the 
family  Herald  9  That  I  might  not  disgrace  you  by  my  illiter- 
acy. Now  the  time's  come  for  the  disclosury.  {To  the  others.) 
Stand  a  little  backer,  please.  {Theatrically.)  Mother,  —  mother, 
behold  your  daughter,  —  your  long-lost  child !  {Attitude.) 

Mrs.  B.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Sarah  {pulling  a  child's  scarlet  frock  out  of  her  red  reticule). 
Did  you  ever  see  a  pinafore  that  used  to  cover  this  afore? 
Take  it  in  your  paternal  hand,  and  look  at  it.    Ah  I 

3Irs.  B.  Mercy  on  me  I  I  made  it  myself!  It  is  —  it  is 
hers ! 

Sarah.  And  did  you  ever  see  such  a  thing  as  this  afore? 
Stand  back,  will  you ;  you'll  see  just  as  well  —  a  mole  on  my 

ilfrs.  JB.  Is  it  possible?  My  child!  my  child!  {Faints  on 
the  sofa,  r.) 

(Marian  falls  into  Arlington's  arjns  —  Sarah  suddenly  re- 
members that  she  ought  to  faint.) 

Sarah  {to  Yearner).  Now,  stupid,  look  out,  —  Tm  off! 
{Faints  in  Yearner's  arms,  l.) 

Tearner.  Wonderful  revelation!  And  in  my  arms  she 
seeketh  support ! 

Arling.  (c).    Dear  Marion,  look  up !    {Kisses  her.) 

Yearner.  Kiss  her  again,  amorous  young  minstrel.  I  will 
not  harm  thee.    Fear  me  not !  | 

Arling.    Fear  you  9 

Yearner.  I  yearn  to  see  all  human  beings  blest.  I  renounce 
her  —  I  bestow  her  on  thee ! 

Sarah  {starting  up  and  pushing  Yearner  aimy).  But  my 
mother,  —  my  blessed  ola  mother !  There  she  lies  like  a  bundle 
of  linen,  and  no  one  looks  her  up  and  sorts  her.  {Goes  over  to 
he/-,  R.)  Come,  cheer  up,  missus  —  mother,  I  mean.  I'll  be  a 
2 


J  4  BOWLE0  OUT. 

good  daughter,  let  me  have  all  my  own  way,  and  you'll  find  me 
the  best  girl  going.  o    ,      7  .  7  n 

Mrs,  B.  (recovering).  Was  it  a  dream?  {Loolang  round.) 
No,  tliere  she  stands.  Alas,  what  a  discovery !  Are  you,  in- 
deed, my  child?  ,     ,  ,      T  4.'  A 

Sarah,  Can  you  doubt  it?  Everybody's  always  noticed 
we're  as  like  as  two  peas  —  only  I'm  a  green  pea,  and  you're  a 
gray  one. 

Mrs,  B,   To  find  you  thus ! 

Sarah.  Aint  I  smart  enough  for  you  ?  You  ought  to  be  glad 
to  find  me  anyhow !  You're  the  talented  authoress  of  my  be- 
ing —  these  innocent  arms  have  twined  round  your  neck  in 
infanticide  —  surely  you're  going  to  give  me  a  kiss  and  a  bene^ 
dictionary!  ^         .    ,r    ^  i 

Mrs,  B.   Yes,  I  will;  but  not  now,  —  not  now!    My  feel- 

'^^^Yearner.  Verily,  I  will  be  deputy.  Damsel,  accept  a 
mother's  kiss.    (Kisses  Sarah.)    Again  — 

Sarah.    That'll  do  —  a  little  of  that  goes  a  long  way ! 

Mrs,  B.    Who  found  you,  child  ?   Who  brought  you  up  ? 

Sarah,  I  was  stole  one  summer's  day,  when  I  was  asleep  on 
\he  Hoe,  where  the  nussmaid  had  left  me,  while  she  walked  on 
the  beach  with  a  full  corporal  of  marines,  and  I  was  brought 
up  ^  But  I'll  tell  you  all  about  that  to-morrow,  and  how  I 
found  out  the  name  of  my  mother,  and  entered  her  service  just 
to  break  the  matter  gently  to  her,  which  I've  done.  Now,  of 
course,  I'm  a  lady,  and  shall  wear  silk  stockings,  and  Balmoral 
boots.    But  you  don't  look  nigh  so  delighted  as  you  ought  to ! 

Mrs,  B,  (bursts  into  tears).  My  hope's  destroyed !  I  expected 
to  have  atoned  for  any  errors  of  my  life  by  conferrmg  my 
worldly  havings  on  this  good  and  excellent  man ;  but  a  mother's 
duty  is  paramount.  PoorYearuer! 

Yearner,  Grieve  not  for  me,  my  sister.  I  am  but  a  poor 
vessel  —  an  earthen  pot,  which  floats  hither  and  thither  on  the 
tide  of  circumstance.  For  your  sake  I  will  sacrifice  myself! 
Oh,  what  a  glorious  thing  to  make  you  happy,  sister !  It  is 
your  duty  to  love  this  girl,  and  bestow  your  wealth  on  her,  and 
I  —  even  I,  will  bestow  myself  on  her.  I  will  cleave  unto  her 
instead  of  yonder  one. 

Mrs.  B.    Good  man !  self-sacrificing  man ! 

Arling.  (aside).    Slimy  crocodile ! 

Sarah,  Oh,  but  I'm  engaged  to  a  smart  young  painter,  who  11 
break  his  heart  if  I  cut  him !  . 

Mrs,  B.  Thwarted  again !  Now,  hear  my  fixed  determina- 
tion. Accept  this  good  young  man  ag  your  future  husband,  or 
I  disown  you.  I  will  never  acknowledge  you  as  my  daughter 
—  never !  I  am  resolved  —  all  the  world  shall  not  turn  me ! 
I  —  oh,  this  is  too  much  1  I  faint  1  Bear  me  to  —  my  cham- 
ber I 


BOWLED  OUT. 


15 


Arling,    Slimy,  bear  her  to  her  chamber  f 

Yearner  (catches  her,  and  with  great  exertion  and  di^lculty^ 
bears  her  away,  saying^  Sister,  this  is  a  heavy  trial !  Is  thy  cham- 
ber handy?  Don't  be  cast  down !  Nay,  I  shall  arop  you  —  oh! 
(Gets  her  off',  R.  -—  a  fall  is  immediately  heard  outside.^ 

Sarah,  Ah,  my  precious  mother  is  down  on  the  door-mat. 
Miss,  I'm  so  sovxy  to  put  your  nose  out  of  joint  —  but  right's 
right,  you  know.  As  for  the  young  gentleman,  I  shall  employ^ 
him  to  instruct  me  in  the  rudiments  of  music,  though  I  shall 
secure  the  services  of  an  imminent  professor  to  teach  me  the 
alimentary  part.  And  I'll  make  the  old  lady  do  something 
handsome  for  you,  miss ! 

Marian  {taking  her  hand).  She  has  already  been  good  to  me, 
and  I  congratulate  you  on  finding  your  dear  mother.  I  could 
almost  rejoice  that  it  has  rid  me  of  the  attentions  of  that 
man! 

Arling,  Dear  girl,  despair  not.  I  have  nothing  —  but  you 
shall  sha^e  it  with  me. 

Sarah,  i  shall  pretend  to  accept  Yearner,  just  to  put  my 
young  man  to  the  proof.  I  shall  let  him  break  his  heart  —  won't 
that  be  fun?  and  then  cure  him  in  a  moment  by  telling  him  I 
love  him,  and  him  only.  Won't  that  be  like  a  play  ?  As  for 
Yearner,  I'll  shock  him,  and  then  he'll  denounce  me. 

Arling.  Shock  him?  Not  while  you  are  likely  to  have 
money.  The  best  plan  will  be  —  for  I  believe  him  to  be  a 
iiypocrite  —  to  draw  him  into  some  snare,  and  thoroughly  ex- 
pose him  to  Mrs.  Brefton.    Leave  that  to  me. 

Sarah.  Well,  we'll  try  both  plans.  I  can  hear  him  coming 
back.  Can't  you  two  lovers  —  for  I  know  you  are  lovers ! 
bless  you,  I  can  see  it  —  don't  blush,  can't  you  lovers  walk 
into  the  garden  for  five  minutes,  while  I  shock  this  good  creat- 
ure with  his    yea  —  verily"  ? 

Arling,  Come,  Marian,  that's  a  very  good  suggestion. 
(Singing,)  "  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud  ~  " 

Sarah,  None  of  your  maudlin  songs  —  we'll  make  Yearner 
sing  by  and  by.    You'll  see  how  I'll  draw  him  out ! 

Arling.    And  then  we'll  shut  him  up. 

[Exeunt  Arlington  and  Marlon,  c.  to  r. 

Sarah.  Did  any  one  ever  see  such  a  scarecrow  ?  As  though 
a  man  couldn't  be  good  without  looking  like  a  guy ! 

Enter  Yearner,  door,  r. 

Yearner,  Your  dear  mother  has  retired  to  bed,  and  has  sig- 
nified her  intention  of  remaining  there  for  the  rest  of  the  day, 
to  recover  from  the  shock  to  her  system.  Therefore,  dear 
child,  we  can  bill  and  coo  to  our  heart's  content.  Of  a  truth, 
thou  art  comely  —  oh ! 

Sarah.  Come,  I  Ghould  like  a  glass  of  wine,  to  bring  my 
system  round;  and  as  I'm  now  the  young  mistress,  I've  a  right 


BOWLED  OUT. 

to  help  myself.  Here  are  my  mother's  keys.  (Goes  to  the  buffet 
at  back,  R.)  What  would  you  like,  black  sheep?  Here's  wine 
and  spirits  —  make  yourself  at  home.  (^Futs  liquor-stand,  tum- 
blers, and  glasses  on  the  table,  e.  c.) 

Tear7ier,  Truly,  I  drink  but  sparely  —  yet  will  X  have  a 
toothful.   (  Fours  himself  out  a  tumbler  of  brandy,  and  drinks  it 

Sarah.  That's  brandy,  young  fellow,  d'ye  know  that?  (Help- 
ing herself  to  a  glass  of  wine.) 

Yearner,  Wine  is  good,  and  sent  for  our  delectation.  {Fours 
out  wine.)  I  drink  to  your  beatitude.  {Drinks.)  Truly,  I  think 
I  could  contribute  to  tOiat  end.  I  will  be  a  dove-like  mate 
{poking  her  with  his  finger)  —  yea,  day  and  night  will  I  lov( 
thee ! 

Sarah.  Oh,  but  you're  too  straight-laced  for  me !  Pancy  a 
young  girl  of  my  spirit  with  a  husband  like  a  parish  pump  — 
and  his  "yea,"  "nay,"  and  "verily!"  You  must  spruce  up, 
my  fine  fellow.  ^    .„  ,  ^  ^ 

Yearner.  I  will  be  what  you  desire.  I  will  become  a  last 
man,  —  yea,  I  will  wear  peg-tops. 

Sarah.   And  take  me  to  the  races  in  a  dog-cart,  like  a  lady— 

Yearner.    Verily,  I  will  back  the  favorite  against  the  field. 

Sarah.  I  am  fond  of  balls  —  you  must  take  me  to  dances  — 
you  must  dance  yourself  — 

Yearner.   Yea,  I  will  polk ! 

Sarah.    Give  card  parties  — 

Yearner.   Trump  my  adversary's  court-card! 

Sarah.   Take  me  to  theatres  — 

Yearner.    Ah,  to  see  the  Traviata  — 

Sarah  {aside).  Mr.  Arlington  was  right  —  there's  no  shock- 
ing him ! 

Yearner.  But  we  must  keep  all  this  a  secret  till  we  are  mar- 
ried—till—till thou  hast  the  goodly  dowry— till  the  old 
dowager  goes  the  way  of  all  flesh.  Ah,  ah !  that  will  not  be 
long  first,  and  then  —  oh !  oh !  {Fokes  her  with  his  finger). 

Sarah  {aside).  The  hypocritical  villain!  {Aloud.)  Come, 
help  yourself  again !  «  • 

Yearner.  Truly  I  will,  for  my  heart  is  leaping  with  joy. 
(Fills  his  glass,  and  drinks.)  Sweetheart,  I  pledge  thee.  {Drinks 
again.)    Then  it  is  settled  —  we  are  betrothed,  are  we  not  ? 

Sarah  {going  to  the  window  —aside).  Ah,  there  he  is  at  the 
gate,  and  in  his  best  clothes,  poor  fellow.  {Aloud.)  There  s 
my  young  man  as  was.  He'd  better  come  up,  and  then  you 
can  tell  him  what  has  taken  place,  for  I  daren't  do  it.  We 
must  behave  handsomely  to  him  —  tell  him  the  truth,  and  ask 
him  to  have  a  glass  of  something.  {She  beckons  to  Bob.)  He  s 
coming  the  back  way. 

Yearner.    Is  he  pugnacious?  (J^ arm-c7la^r.) 

Sarah.  No,  rather  snubbed.  {Aside.)  Does  he  mean  his  nose  ? 


BOWLED  OUT. 


17 


Yearner  (aside).  Then  will  I  bully  him.  Yea,  I  will  ex- 
nilarate  myself  with  another  glass,  and  terrify  him  with  my 
demeanor.  (Again  helps  himself  to  drink,) 

Enter  Bob  Quorms,  in  his  Sunday  suit,  l. 

Bob.  Ah,  Sarah  Ann,  I'm  glad  you  called  me  up,  for  my  con- 
science was  a-pricking  so,  that  I  couldn't  stand  solitude  —  and 
who  do  you  think  I  saw  in  the  town  ?  Why,  Uncle  Jack,  the 
fisherman,  that  I  was  telling  you  about ;  but  he  didn't  see  me, 
and  —  Lord,  how  well  you  look  in  that  dress !  Give  me  a  kiss 
for  what  I've  done. 

Tearner  (who  is  getting  slightly  queer  from  drink,  comes  for- 
vmrd)c  Brimstone  and  treacle  —  no,  I  mean  fire  and  brimstone ! 
who  talks  about  such  a  profane  thing  as  kicking  —  I  mean 
kissing? 

Bob.  1  didn't  see  you,  governor,  and  if  I  had,  I  don't  know 
that  I've  said  any  harm ;  she  happens  to  be  my  young  woman. 

Yearner.  Stan'  there!  I  shall  divide  my  heads  into  seven- 
teen discourses.  First  —  what's  to  become  of  us  all?  Lastly, 
she's  going  to  become  Mrs.  Yearner,  and  you've  nothing  to  do 
with  her.    Yea,  put  that  in  your  smoke  and  pipe  it. 

Bob.  Going  to  become  Mrs.  Deuce !  She's  not  such  a  fool 
as  that,  1  know.  Speak,  Sally,  why  don't  you  tell  this  fellow 
he's  making  an  ass  of  himself. 

Sarah.   Alas !  Bob,  it's  too  true ! 

Bob,   What,  that  he's  an  ass  ? 

Yearner.    Oh,  what  a  goodly  thing  is  a  donkey  I 

Sarah.  I'm  sacrificed  at  the  altar  of  duty.  My  mother  has 
commanded  me  to  accept  his  hand. 

Bob.  Then  you're  a  —  I  won't  say  what  you  are !  But  he's 
a  —  I  won't  say  what  he  is  ! 

Yearner,  I'll  have  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  then  I'll  talk  to 
you,  my  beloved  young  friend.  (Goes  up  and  helps  himself.) 
Now,  woss  that  you  shed  'bout  me,  ole  fellow? 

Bob.  Why,  you're  a  hypocritical  rascal  —  a  black  sheep, 
that  taxes  others  with  faults  he  commits  himself —  you,  you're 
no  man !  you're  a  nincumpoop ! 

Yearner.  My  lamb,  can  you  stand  by  and  hear  your  darling 
Ezekiel  called  such  an  obnoxious  thing  as  an  income-tax  ? 

Bob.  And  you,  Sally  —  I  see  how  it  is  —  you  sell  yourself 
for  money !  After  my  loving  you  to  the  pitch  I  did,  and  set- 
ting my  conscience  a- working  over- time  for  your  sake !  This 
is,  indeed,  a  trial ! 

Yearner.  Trial —  Pm  the  judge.  Pris'ner,  I  fine  you  guilty. 
I  sha,ll  pronounce  the  awful  sentence  —  I  put  ou  the  black  cap. 
(Puts  on  his  hat.)    I  sentence  you  to  be  taken  hence  — 

Bob.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  stand  this !  (Bonnets  Yearner, 
knocking  his  broad-brimmed  hat  completely  over  his  face,  then 
kicks  him.)  And  now,  Miss  Sarah  Ann,  look  out -for  yourself 
3* 


BOWI^D  OUT. 


^  you'll  hear  of  me  again,  and  future  generations  will  see  m5 
wax-work  in  Madame  Tassaud's  chamber  of  horrors :  O  my 
roTisoience  I  [Bushes  out,  door  l, 

TaTTialUng  after  him).   But,  Bob !  Bob !  Robert  Quorms  i 
He's  gone,  poor  fellow  I    I  meant  to  tell  him  the  truth ! 

CYearnek,  who  has  been  maJcing  ineffectual  and  convulsive  effons 
to  remove  the  hat  from  his  face,  strikes  out  right  and  left,  and 
hits  Aklington,  who  is  just  entering  with  Makian,  c,  —  a^a,- 
LINGTON  knocks  him  on  to  the  sofa.) 

Arlinq,    What  is  the  matter?  , 
Yearner  (getting  his  hat  off).    Murder's  the  matter!  Im 
wounded  in  all  my  vital  parts !    Thieves !  murder  I  what  is  to 

^X^r^Son^^  make  such  a  noise  -  we  shall  have  mother 
down  upon  us  directly.  ^?„T,f 
Yearner.  My  lamb  with  mint  sauce  —  my  wife,  with  eight 
thousand,  are  you  there?  Ah,  young  Twiddlekeys,  is  that 
you?   Help  yourself  to  some  branny,  ole  fellow.    {Pours  out, 

and  drinks.)  -^.-u  i  -^o 

Marian.   Gracious !  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ^ 
Arling.  {aside  to  Sarah).    I  see  our  plot  is  far  advanced.  1 

guessed  this  was  a  weakness  of  his.  ^  ^      -  a 

Sarah.    There's  a  husband  for  you!    I  was  determined  that 

when  I  did  choose  one,  it  should  be  either  a  parson  or  a  soldier. 
Yearner.    I'll  be  a  soldier.   Yea,  I'll  join  the  volunteers,  and 

practise  the  goose-step.    How  should  I  look  as  a  ritle 
Arling.  (blackening  a  cork).   You  want  a  mustache.  (^Faini.i 

a  mustache  on  him.)  4.,  ^\^\^  vpJ 

Sarah.   Now  brush  np  your  hair  -  that's  it  -  an^/^^f  leJ 
velvet  reticule  will  make  a  capital  military  cap.  (^^f^/f 
on  his  head.)   There's  a  military  man  for  you.   (A  fiddler  wit li-- 
alt  strikes  up  a  polka.)    There's  old  Wilks,  the  blind  fiddler^ 
Arling.   Now  for  a  dance.    {Polks  Marian  round  the  room.) 

(Sarah  seizes  Yearner  arid  dances  him  round  till  he  whirls  into 
Mrs.  Brefton's  arms,  as  she  enters  with  her  nightcap  on,  .R'  — 
Mrs  Brefton  screams  as  he  polks  her  grotesquely,  till  tfiey 
both  sink  exhausted  on  the  so/a,  —  Mrs.  Brefton,  r.  —  Year- 
ner, L.) 

Yearner  {sitting  up).   Wha's  to  become  of  us  all? 

Mrs.  B.  {sitting up).   Police!  police!  m  ,  n.^ 

Yearner.  It's  Mother  Brefton,  -  I'll  pick  her  up.  {(^ets  up, 
and  attempts  to  lift  her.)  , 

Mrs.  B.  {getting  up,  and  repulsing  him).  Can  this  be  the  good 
Mr.  Yearner?  What  a  disgraceful  sight !  Inebriated!  {He  is 
approaching  her.)    Touch  me  not  -  I'm  disgusted ! 

Yearner.    No,  you  are  not  disgustmg.    Only  you  mustnt 


BOWLED  OUT. 


19 


keep  us  out  of  the  money  too  long.   You're  sure  you've  made 
your  will  all  right  ? 
Mrs,  B.   What  do  I  hear? 

Tearner.   Here's  my  wife  —  she  loves  me  to  distrashion ! 

Sarah.  Monster,  away  1  After  what  you  have  said  to  my 
parent,  do  you  think  I'll  ever  give  you  my  hand  ?  Insult  me  if 
you  will,  but  spare,  oh,  spare  my  maternal  mother.  (  Crosses  to 
R.  and  embraces  Mrs.  Brefton.  Yearner  is  approaching  her.) 
Away,  or  see  me  fall  a  blackened  corsair  at  your  feet.  i^Atti- 

Tearner  (coolly  blowing  his  nose).   Wha's  the  row  ? 
Unter  Bob  Quorms  and  Kidman,  a  fisherman,  l. 

Bob,  Now,  Sarah  Ann,  I'm  come  to  put  a  stopper  on  your 
game.  My  conscience  hasn't  been  a- working  for  nothing  — 
this  is  my  Uncle  Jack ! 

Marian,   My  father ! 

Arling.  What*' 

Mrs.  B.   Kidman ! 

Bob.   Now,  speak  up,  Uncle  Jack! 

Kid.  (pointing  to  Sarah).   That  girl  aint your  daughter,— 
it's  an  imposition ! 
Bob.   Hear  —  hear ! 
Sarah  (aside).   It's  all  up ! 

Kid.  My  rascal  of  a  nephew,  here,  stole  the  frock  from  my 
chest. 

Mrs.  B.   How  did       come  by  it? 

Kid.   I  took  it  off  the  child  with  my  own  hands. 

Mrs,  B,    You  ? 

Kid.  Do  you  recollect  your  husband,  when  he  was  in  trade, 
prosecuting  a  woman  for  passing  a  bad  sovereign?  That 
woman  was  my  wife  —  it  was  the  death  of  her.  Out  of  revenge 
I  kidnapped  your  child,  and  brought  her  up  as  my  own.  When 
you  came  to  Weymouth,  I  used  to  row  you  out  in  niy  boat. 
You  happened  to  say  you  should  like  to  adopt  a  child,  and  you 
took  (not  knowing  it)  your  own  daughter.    There  she  stands ! 

Ml.   Marian  I 

Kid.  She  had  a  mole  on  her  left  arm,  which  1  hid  by  burn- 
ing. 

Mrs.  B,  I  took  her  because  she  resembled  my  lost  child. 
I  feel  your  tale  is  true.  My  Lucinda,  come  to  your  mother's 
arms! 

Yearner  (who  has  been  asleep  on  the  sofa,  wakes  up  at  the  last 
words).  You  her  mother!  She  shall  be  my  lamb,  — I'll  marry 
her  I 

Kid.   Why,  that's  the  scamp  that  bolted  from  Weymouth 
with  the  cash-box  of  the    Benevolent  Buffers'  Society." 
All.  Rascal ! 


20 


BOWLED  OUT. 


Tearner.   Yea,  the  multitude  is  on  me !   I  will  hold  forth. 

Mv  discourse  I  shall  divide  into  seventeen  heads  — 
Arling,    Silence,  or  I'll  break  your  head,  as  sure  as  my  name 

is  Arthur  Arlington !  ,        ^  o 

Kid.   Any  relation  to  old  Stephen  Arlmgton,  of  Stoke  ? 
Arling.   His  grand-nephew,  —  but  unacknowledged  because 

^^Kid.  Well,  he  died  yesterday  morning,  and  they  say  he's 
left  vou  Stoke  Manor,  and  five  hundred  a  year. 

Arling.  Then  if  so,  may  I  hope  that  Mrs.  Brefton  will  coun- 
tenance my  suit  to  her  lovely  daughter  ? 

Mrs  B.    If  my  child  loves  you  she  shall  not  be  opposed. 

Tearner  {behind,  on  sofa,  aside),   I  shall  marry  the  old  wo- 

"^^iarah  (sobbing).  Missus,  don't  send  me  to  the  treadmill  for 
imposing  on  you ;  I  won't  do  it  again.  o    i^t-  i. 

Bob.  What,  is  your  conscience  a-workmg  now?  Mme  has 
left  off,  and  shut  up  shop.  ^  .  ^.u- 

Mrs  B    My  delight  is  so  great  that  I  can  forgive  anything. 

Arling.  And  if  my  fortune  proves  real,  I'll  present  you  with 
a  hundred  pounds.  ^  . 

Sarah.   Oh,  thank  you!   And  won't      forgive  me,  Bob,  for 

having  made  a  breach  in  our  love  ?  ,  >  a 

Bob.  Never.  First  you  set  my  conscience  a-workmg,  and 
then  you  cast  me  off  for  another.  There's  a  pair  of  breaches 
between  us  that  can  never  be  repaired. 

Arling.  But  when  I  tell  you  that  she  only  pretended  to  accept 
this  slimy  hypocrite  to  do  us  a  service  — 

Bob.  Didn't  she?  Then,  Sarah  Ann,  come  to  my  arms.  I 
think,  after  that,  she  ought  to  be  brought  out  in  the  "Lives  of 
Eemarkable  Women,"  in  penny  parts.  t>  .  t  ^ 

Kid  I've  been  an  out  and  out  rascal,  I  have.  But  i  took 
care  of  the  girl  while  I  had  her,  and  I've  done  the  best  now  to 
ease  my  conscience. 

Bob    Do  forgive  him  1   He's  a  noble  old  villain,  after  all ! 

Sarah.  Ah,  we've  all  been  full  of  faults ;  but  we  generally 
get  forgiveness  from  our  friends  here,  for  if  they  refuse  to 
give  us  a  good  character—         ,  ,  ,  «  no 

Yearner  (waking  up  c).   What  is  to  become  of  us  all  ? 

Yeaknbr. 

MRS.B.    Makian.  Arling.  Sarah.  Bob.  Kidman. 

Curtain. 


JOHN  WOPPS; 

FROM  INFORMATION  I  RECEIVED. 

IN    ONE!  J^GrC. 

BY    W.  E.  SUTBE. 


JOHN  WOPPS. 


CHARACTERS. 

Surrey,  Londos. 

I860. 

,    .   Mr.  Briudsley. 

SAM  SNUG,  Independent.    ^^^^^.^^ 

Chovs,  a  Journeyman  Butcher   ^  ^.^^ 

John  Wopps,  A  Policeman,^  A       ...  -           '  '     *  '  *  Mr  Wright. 
Tom  Chaffer,  DittOy  "  A  2."    

 Miss  Bellair. 

MRS.  WOPPS   •  Mr8.Atkin8. 

Mrs.  Chops.  


COSTUMES. 

SNUG-Broad-brimmecl  white  hat,  full-skirted  coat,  trousers  and 

leather  leggings. 

Chops  -  Breeches,  butcher's  trocfe,  apron,  and  steel. 
Wopps  —  Policeman's  dress. 
Chaffkr  —  Pitto,  with  great  coat,  &c. 
Mrs.  Wopps  —  Neat  cotton  dress. 
Mrs.  Chops  — Ditto. 


JOHN  WOPPS; 

OB, 

FROM  INFORMATION  I  RECEIVED. 


Scene.  —  A  plain  chamber,  plainly  furnished.  Door,  k.  c.  A 
large  cuphoardy  or  closet,  showing,  when  open,  shelves  all  around 
it,  on  which  are  ranged  cups  and  saucers,  tea-pot,  plates,  dishes, 
^c.y  L.  c. ;  L.  u.  E.,  a  window  ;  door,  r.  2  e.  ;  door,  l.  2  b. 

Enter  Mrs.  Wopps,  c.  d.,  ca/rrying  a  large  pie, 

Mrs,  W,  O,  dear !  —  (^Placing  pie  on  table.)  —  This  pie  is  very 
hot  and  very  heavy ;  but,  I  am  proud  to  say,  the  crust  is  very  light. 
I  should  think  John  would  be  pleased  with  this  for  his  supper. 
Really  there  is  no  knowing  what  to  get  for  him.  I  wonder  whether 
all  policemen  are  as  dainty  as  he  is  when  he  comes  off  his  beat. 

Enter  Mrs.  Chops,  r.  d. 

Mrs,  C,  Excuse  my  coming  this  way,  Mrs.  Wopps ;  but  that  back 
staircase  is  so  convenient. 

Mrs,  W,  {Shortly.)  — And  what  may  you  please  to  want,  mum? 
Mrs,  C.    I  want  my  husband. 

Mrs,  W,    And  why  should  you  expect  to  find  him  here,  mum? 
Mrs.  C.    He  said  he  had  a  message  to  leave  for  Mr.  Wopps;  and 

8C  I  thought  

Mrs,  W,    I  don't  believe  you. 
Mrs,  C,    What  did  you  say,  mum  ? 

Mrs,  W.  You  are  always  intruding  into  my  room  with  some 
excuse  or  other,  and  it's  my  opinion  that  you  come  after  my  hus- 
band. 

Mrs,  C,    (Laughing,)  —  O,  you  silly  woman  I 
Mrs.  W.   I  don't  forget  that  he  courted  you  before  he  fell  in  love 
with  me. 

(8) 


4  JOHN  WOPPS. 

Mrs.  0.  Nonsense— we  were  never  sweethearts  —  but  wo  were 
neighbors,  and  once  or  twice  he  took  me  to  the  tea-gardens,  and 
paid  for  tea  and  shrimps.  ,  -..^ 

Mrs.  [f.    (Spitefully.)— Yes,  1  know  he  did. 

Mrs.  a    And  I  gave  him  up  entirely  as  soon  as  I  became  ac 

"""tl'^W^^^^^^  up!    You  mean  that  he  wisl  ed  you  good 

morninff  as  soon  as  he  was  introduced  to  me.  ,    ^  -, 

Mrs  C    Yes,  that  was  it,  if  it  will  make  you  more  contented.  ^ 
Mrs.  W.    I  cannot  but  be  aware  that  my  husband  is  a  superior 

man.  .  ,. 

Mrs.  C.    (Sneeringly.)  —  He  is  a  policeman.      ^     .     .  , 

Mrs.  W.  And  his  uniform  renders  him  very  fascinating  —  nc 
couldn't  look  more  noble  if  he  was  an  inspector. 

Mrs  G  At  all  events,  Mrs.  Wopps,  I  beg  I  may  hear  no  more 
of  your  ridiculous  suspicions  and  insinuations  —  they  are  msultmg 
to  ine,  for  I  am  a  respectable  married  woman. 

Mrs.  W.    (.Sneeringly.)— Yes,  your  husband  is  a  journeyman 

^^MrTc.  {Sharply.)  —  He  will  be  a  master  before  your  husband 
is  a  Serjeant.  -         u  9 

Mrs   Tf.    Why  did  you  take  a  lodging  m  this  house 

Mrs.  a  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  living  here  —  and  even  it 
I  had,  should  not  have  hesitated. 

Mrs.  W.    No,  of  course  you  wouldn't. 

Mrs.  C.    O,  Mrs.  Wopps,  I  am  ashamed  of  you. 

Mrs   W.    Your  husband,  mum,  shares  my  suspicions. 

Mrs.  C.  And  your  husband  is  jealous  of  you  —  jealous  of  every- 
body that  even  looks  at  you,  and  suffers,  as  he  declares,  a  martyr- 
dom all  the  while  he  is  on  his  beat. 

Mrs  W.  There  is  no  true  love  without  a  little  jealousy  —  but 
in  his  heart,  my  Wopps  knows  that  I  am  devoted  to  him,  as  he  is 
to  me. 

Mrs.  C.  Ah! 

Mrs.  W.  And  now,  excuse  me,  I  must  put  my  ^le  away. — 
( Places  pie  on  shelf  in  cupboard.) 

Mrs.  C.    For  Mr.  Wopps's  supper,  I  presume?         ^  ^ 

Mrs  W.  (Closing  cupboard  door.)  —  Yes,  mum,  it  is,  since  you 
must  know;  bis  appetite  is  very  delicate  lately,  and  I  thought  this 
little  delicacy  might  tempt  him  -  my  thoughts,  mum,  are  all  centred 
in  my  own  husbanc:,  and  nobody  else's.  ^ 

Mrs.  a    O,  I  don't  think  he'll  return  very  hungry  this  evening! 

Mrs.  W.    Why  should  you  think  so,  pray? 

Mrs.  G.  Because,  a  while  ago,  I  saw  him  glide  down  the  steps 
of  an  area,  and  into  the  kitchen.  ,  .u^^^ 

Mrs.  W.    Well,  mum,  and  what  of  that.?  —  he  had  a  case  there, 

^  ^Mrs^^J'  O  yes,  it  was  a  case;  no  doubt  about  it.  But  I  have 
my  ironing  to  do;  so  I  hope  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  excuse 


JOHN  WOPPS. 


me, --(Aside,)-- 1  have  given  her  a  turn;  and  really,  a  little  bit 
^''^''^  a"?*  f  *  all  unpleasant.  iMit,  r.  door. 
Mrs.  W.  (Sinking  into  chair.)  —  Down  an  area !  I  have  heard 
that  polipemen  do  sometimes  go  down  areas ;  but  my  John  wouldn't 
—  no ;  he  looks  higher  than  that.  If  I  really  thought  he  could  de- 
scend so  low  

Snug.  (Putting  his  head  in  c.  door.) —1^  Mrs.  Wopns  at 
home? 

Mrs.  W.    Yes,  she  is.    What  may  you  please  to  want? 
i^nug.    (Running  forward.)  —  I  want  you.  —  (About  to  embrace 
twr^  she  rises  and  retreats.)  —  My  blessed  Betsy,  give  me  a 

M^s.  W.    If  you  don't  keep  off,  sir,  I'll  scream  fire ! 

Snug.    I  knew  you  would  give  me  a  warm  reception. 
I  ^^^'  gracious  !  —  O,  dear !  —  if  he  wasn't  in  Austra- 

La,  1  should  say  you  were  my  brother  Sam. 

Snug.    He  was  there,  but  he  isn't  —  for  here  he  is. 

Mrs.  W.    O,  my  dear  Sam ! 

Snug.  My  blessed  ^Qt8y\  —  (They  embrace.)^!  knew  you 
would  be  glad  to  see  me.  ^ 

Mrs.  W.  Glad !  —  (Crying,  and  wiping  her  eyes.)  —  Never  was 
so  happy  m  all  my  life. 

^n'f^g-  (Laughing.)  —  What  rum  chaps  women  are  !  —  happen 
what  will,  they  are  sure  to  cry ;  miserable  or  jolly,  they  can't  settle 
down  without  a  good  shower  of  tears.  Cry  away,  my  blessed  Betsy, 
tor  I  suppose  it  does  you  good.  ^ 

Mrs.  W.    And  so,  my  dear  Sam,  you  have  really  come  at  last? 

^nug.  Yes  ;  and  what's  more,  I  haven't  come  home  with  empty 
pockets.  Had  good  luck  at  the  diggins-had  to  wait  a  precious 
long  time  for  it,  though  —  at  last  my  mates  and  I  lighted  on  a  nug- 
get, something  worth  talking  about;  and  now,  as  far  as  money  can 
do  It,  I  am  a  gentleman  for  life. 

Mrs.  W.    O,  I  am  so  glad. 

Snug     And  so  you  ought  to  be,  Betsy,  for  I'll  make  a  lady  of 
you,  and  your  husband,  too ;  but  where  is  he? 

Mrs.  W.  John  

Snug.    Wopps,  yes. 

Mrs.  W.    He  won't  be  home  for  two  hours  yet;  he's  on  rtuty. 

Snug.    Ah,  exactly ;  you  wrote  to  me  that  he  was  a  peeler. 

Mrs.  W.  Don't  never  let  him  hear  you  say  peeler  — it  wouid 
nurt  his  leehngs  :  he  is  so  very  susceptible  —  comes  of  highly  re- 
spectable parents  —  was  brought  up  to  no  sort  of  employment --in 
tact,  he  was  a  gentleman  till  he  married  me ;  and  then,  as  I  had  a 
little  bit  of  money,  and  he  was  anxious  for  a  genteel  occupation 
we  took  an  establishment  in  the  general  line.  ' 

Snug.    And  how  did  it  answer? 

Mrs.  W.  Well,  we  had  a  beautiful  shop,  and  should  have  done 
a  good  trade  if  we  had  had  any  custom ;  but  we  hadn't,  except  people 
that  never  paid,  and  we  got  tired  of  that. 


g  JOHN  WOPPS. 


Snug.    AnA  _      g^ia  everything  —  that  is  —  I  mean, 

very  superior  hearthstone. 
KV.^NoTsSe^faiT^^^^^^^^^      spent  aU  our  money,  and 

'T.^?  The  superior  hearthstone  included 
m^^  W.   And  then  Wopps  entered  the  force. 
Snug.   Theforee?-0,  ah,  turned  peeler. 

Unter  Chops,  r.  c^oor,  anc?  starts. 
Chops.    Hem,  hem !  excuse  me,  of  course,  Mrs.  Wopps,  I  didn't 
know  you  was  engaged,  or  — - 
Mrs  W.    What  is  it,  Mr.  Chops  ? 
Chops.   Have  you  seen  my  Sarah  i 

^Tii*^.    What  does  he  mean?  ov.^..«? 

XSS.  ..i  tool.  ».-<!,  *l~S  >„p,,,„  .0 
we  have  another  aparim«iit     uix^   —  no  —  com- 

Sctton?    0,  Betsy,  Betsy  1  -  ^S^nhs  tnto  cha^r.) 


JOHN  WOPPS. 


1 


Enter  Tom  Chaffer,  c.  door. 
I  ^ 

Chaf.  (Aside.)  —  There  he  is  —  what  a  green  un  !  —  one  can 
gammon  him  to  anything.  —  {Aloud,)  —  Wopps  !  —  {He  jumps  up.) 

Wopps,  Yes  !  that's  my  name  —  but  you  have  stung  me  worse 
tijan  any  waps  that  ever  was. 

Ohaf,    Come  back  to  your  beat,  or  you'll  b3  found  out. 

Wopps,    No,  I  shall  be  found  at  home,  for  here  I  mean  to  stay. 

Chaf.  {Aside,  laughing.) — Well,  he  is  green — {Aloud.)  — 
When  I  came  up  to  you,  you  were  quietly  slipping  down  some  area 
steps. 

Wopps,  Yes,  I  know  —  at  No.  6  Grub  Street.  —  {Aside.')  —  The 
cook  had  kindly  informed  me  that  she  had  a  considerable  portion 
of  a  cold  fowl  very  much  at  my  service. 

Chaf.    What  were  you  up  to  down  there,  eh? 

Wopps.  A  boy  had  just  thrown  a  marble  dowJn  the  area,  and  I 
was  going  to  see  if  he'd  broke  a  window. 

Chaf.  Ah,  ah!  then  I  told  you — {sniggering  asic?e)  — that  a 
man  had  just  called  upon  your  wife,  after  making  sure  that  you 
were  not  at  home. 

Wopps.    O I 

Chaf.  And  that  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  they  were  about 
to  elope  together. 

Wopps.    And  then  I  rushed  from  you  in  a  state  of  delirium. 

Chaf,  At  the  very  moment  that  an  old  woman  was  knocked 
down  by  a  wheelbarrow  under  your  very  nose. 

Wopps.  I  know  it  —  and  she  shouted  '*  Police"  —  everybody 
shouted  Police  "  —  and  the  result  will  be,  that  once  more  will  be 
heard  the  libellous  remark,  that  a  policeman  is  never  in  the  way 
when  he's  wanted. 

Chaf.  Have  you  noticed  anything  strange  in  your  wife's  manner 
lately? 

Wopps.  Yes  —  she  was  always  queer  when  I  came  home  without 
any  appetite  —  unjust  female  —  how  should  a  man  be  hungry  with 
so  many  generous  cooks  residing  on  his  beat? 

Ghaf.  And  now  she  has  gone  and  left  you  —  bolted  with  some 
other  scamp. 

Wopps.  Other  scamp  —  be  particular  about  yonr  grammar,  will 
you  ?  But,  of  course,  Tom,  it's  all  true  —  you  wouldn't  deceive 
me. 

C,*taf.    Now,  is  it  likely  ? 

Wopps.    Certainly  not  —  you  are  one  of  us  —  and  a  policeman 
is  the  soul  of  honor. 
Chaf.    Of  course  he  is. 

Wopps,  Tom,  the  man  that  could  ever  doubt  a  policeman's  evi- 
dence would  be  base  enough  to  set  the  Thames  on  fire,  if  by  human 
means  that  daring  act  could  be  accomplished. 

Chaf,  Well,  now,  take  my  advice  —  come  back  to  your  beat« 
Recollect  that  public  duty  

Wopps.    Pooh  —  I'm  on  domestic  duty  —  that,  Tom,  is  para- 


JOHN  WOPP8. 


""""Chaf.    (Aside.) -^ell,  now,  this  is  what  I  do  call  a  lark. - 
(  Goes  offJaughinff,  c.  door.) 
•"^Z:;  o?thf  cXowl  /was  Ihout  to  masticafe,  and  now  I  feel 

trunch^n  )  " "Xh  hfm  !  -  (Brings  his  truncheon  down  on 
dealings  with  a  Pfof»'"\°f^,;^^ent  of  her  departure  to  prepare 

(Closes  cupboard  door,  shutting  himself  in.) 

Enter  Mrs.  Wopps  and  Sam  Snug,  r.  door. 

Mn'o   W    Dpar  clear,  how  unfortunate !  ,    ,  /• 

f^«a  Wonde;  hot  we  missed  him.  -  (John  Wopps  looks  from 
Jbol-d,  andstarU.)  -  Don't  take  on  so.  What  need  you  mmd 
what  anybody  says?  ,  ^ 

Wopps,    (Aside.)  —  There's  a  ruffian. 

^r,7jn     I  have  arranged  all  my  plans,  J3etsy.  ^ 

Calls  he?  Betsy;  then  the  evidence  is  com- 
plete! fnd  I  am  fully  committed  for  a  heavy  trial.  -  {Staggers  back 
into  cupboard,  dosing  door.)  ■D„tc„.  in  n  Inrt^p  house  ud 

Snua  We'll  live  in  the  country,  Betsy;  in  a  large  nouse,  up 
steps  and  a  dog-kennel  in  the  passage,  and  a  poach-house  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  and  we'll  keep  some  pigs  in  the  back  kitchen, 
aTeverything  besides  that's  genteel  and  fashionable;  '^"d  I  say, 
Betsyrshan't  wc  astonish  Wopps? -  (Wopps  groans  ^n  cupboard.) 

Mrs   W.    Good  gracious!  what's  that.''   ^ 

Snug    you  ought  to  know  best.  - 1  am  quite  a  stranger  here. 


JOHN  WOPPS. 


I 


Mrs.  W.   But  if  Wopps  should  first  be  told  that  I  —  (Wopps 
groans  again  ;  both  start,)  — O,  whatever  is  it? 
Snug.    Do  you  keep  a  cat  ? 
Mrs.  W.    Yes;  but- — 

Snug.  Well,  never  mind  —  come  along,  Betsy.  —  (Putting  his  arm 
round  her  waist.  Wopps  puts  his  head  from  cupboard,  and  hastily 
draws  it  hack  again.)  —  Don't  fret  any  more,  but  give  me  a  kiss, 
Betsy  dear,  and  come  along  with  me.  —  (Kisses  her  with  a  loud 
smack.  Wopps  groans  again,  and  a  rattling  is  heard  amongst 
some  of  the  crockery  ;  both  start.) 

Mrs.  W.    I  don't  believe  that  was  the  cat. 

Snug.  Then  there's  a  ghost  on  the  premises  —  and  your  husband 
can  take  him  in  charge,  considering  he's  a  peeler. 

Mrs.  W.  Now  don't  say  peeler  I  —  there's  a  dear  —  pray  don't.  — 
(They  go  off,  c.  d.) 

Mbs.  Chops  enters,  r.  d. 

Mrs.  C.  Mrs.  Wopps,  would  you  be  good  enough  to  — why,  she 
isn't  here.  Where  has  she  gone  to,  I  wonder? —  (Wopps  groans. 
Mrs.  Chops  starting.)  — Mercy  on  me,  what's  that?  —  (A  blow  is 
heard  at  cupboard  door  ;  it  flies  open,  and  Wopps  is  seen  sitting 
on  the  floor,  and  feebly  nodding  his  head,  and  shaking  his  trun- 
cheon.) —  Gracious,  Mr.  Wopps,  why  are  you  there? 

Wopps.    From  information  I  received  

Mrs.  G.  (Laughing.)  —  I  understand.  Somebody  told  you  there 
was  a  pie  in  the  cupboard. 

Wopps,    {Writhing.)  —  Rabbit — rabbit-  

Mrs,  G,    Rabbit  what? 

Wopps,    It  was  a  rabbit  pie,  mum. 

Mrs,  G,  Was !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  have  eaten  it 
all?. 

Wopps.    (Indignantly.)  —  Ate  it  —  no  —  I'm  a  sitting  in  it. 
Mrs.  G.    What  I 

Wopps.  Yes,  mum ;  and  if  I  was  called  on  to  give  evidence,  I 
should  swear  that  it  hasn't  been  long  from  the  baker's.  —  (He  rises.) 
—  ttee,  mum — (pointing  to  floor) —there  is  the  debris,  as  the 
newspapers  say.  Perhaps  you'll  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  if  the 
gravy  has  soiled  my  uniform  ?  —  (He  turns,  and  pieces  of  pie-crust, 
part  of  the  dish,  Sfc,  are  seen  clinging  to  his  coat,  and  sticking  cut 
of  his  pockets.) 

Mrs.  G.    But  what  does  all  this  mean? 

Wopps.  (Breaking  out,)  —  It  means  that  my  wife  is  false  — 
that  she  has  sloped  —  gone  off  with  a  vagabond,  not  half  so  good- 
looking  as  I  am. 

Mrs.  G,    It  isn't  possible. 

Wopps.    Not  possible  I   I  tell  you  there's  no  comparison  between 
us  —  he's  ugly,  mum  —  ugly. 
Mrs,  G.   Not  possible,  I  mean,  that  your  wife  has  run  away. 


10 


JOHN  WOPPS. 


Wopps.    If  I  said  run  away,  I  improperly  expressed  myself —1 
should  have  said  walked  off.   Yes,  mum,  walked  off,  walked  off 
with  a  fellow  that  called  me  a  peeler. 
.  Mrs,  (7.    Good  heavens  ! 

Wopps.  O,  it's  a  safe  conviction  —  and  I  have  no  reason  to  asK 
for  a  remand  to  complete  the  case.  They  made  love  here,  before 
my  face,  while  I  was  behind  their  back.  I  saw  him  with  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  I  heard  him  kiss  her. 

Mrs,  C.    And  you  didn't  knock  him  down  ? 

Wopps.  I  didn't ;  for  I  felt  so  weak,  and  he  looked  so  powerful. 
It  wasn't  for  want  of  courage  — ask  the  boys  on  my  beat --they 
fly  before  me.  When  I  see  five  or  six  of  them  together,  up  to  their 
larks,  I  rush  in  amongst  them  — I  hit  the  biggest  on  the  nose 
with  my  truncheon,  and,  as  a  warning  and  example,  I  seize  the  lit- 
tlest by  the  hair  of  his  head,  and  lug  him  off  to  the  station,  regard- 
less of  consequences. 

Mrs.  C.    But  with  respect  to  your  wife  ?  o   tt  > 

Wopps.  1  don't  respect  her  at  all  —  how  should  I  ?  Hasn  t  she 
escaped  from  my  custody  ?  — Wasn't  I  a  witness  ?  — Didn't  I  hear 
her  say  My  dear  »  to  the  ruffian  who  called  me  by  the  ignomin- 
ious name  of peeler?"  O,  Mrs.  Chops,  I  think  I  could  have 
borne  all  but  that  —  that  "  peeler  "  was  the  last  straw,  and  it  broke 
my  back.  O,  then  it  was  that,  overpowered,  annihilated,  I  subsided 
into  the  rabbit  pie.  ,        ,        x  n  • 

Mrs.  G.  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  all  you  have  been  talking 
about.    I  know  by  my  husband's  ridiculous  jealousy  that  ^  ^ 

Wopps.  He  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself.  Whatever  opinion 
he  may  have  formed  of  you,  he  knows  that  I  am  a  moral  man. 

Mrs.  0.    Well,  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Wopps. 

Wopps.  Don't  mind  me  —  I  don't  know  what  I  am  talking  about. 
My  wife  has  run  away,  and  my  head  isn't  as  it  ought  to  be.  O, 
Mrs.  Chops,  I  should  have  made  you  Mrs.  Wopps. 

Mrs.  0.    I  should  have  declined  the  honor. 

Wopps.  No,  you  wouldn't  —  how  could  you  after  the  several 
teas  and  shrimps  that  I  so  liberally  paid  for  on  your  account  —  you 
were  very  expensive,  Mrs.  Chops  —  of  course  you  remember  the 
many  glasses  of  rum  and  water  

Mrs.  C.    Which  you  drank.  .  . 

Wopps.  Did  I?  —  I  don't  know  —  my  head,  as  I  said  before.  — 
( Breaking  out.)  —  Which  is  the  way  to  Bedlam?  —  Mrs.  C.,  call  a 
eab  —  put  the  fare  in  my  pocket,  and  give  orders  that  if  they  can  t 
cure  me,  I  am  to  be  smothered. 

Mrs.  G.    Fray  do  not  make  a  fool  of  yourself. 

Wopps.  Consoling  angel  — your  sympathy  is  a  comfort  to  my 
ftuffering  bosom  —  bless  you,  Mrs.  Chops,  bless  you ! 

Mrs.  C.    (Getting  away.)  —  Mr.  Wopps,  what  are  you  about 

Wopps.  Excuse  me  ;  I  don't  know  —  it's  my  head,  as  I  said  be- 
fore. My  wife  has  left  me  —  and  now  —  other  days  —  the  tea  - 
and  the  shrimps  —  they  are  rising  


JOHN  WOPPS. 


11 


Mrs,  C.    Mr.  Wopps ! 

Wbpps,  To  my  memory.  Again  I  am  beside  you  in  the  tea- 
gardens  —  again  I  see  the  glass  of  rum  and  water  before  me  — ^ 
would  that  I  could  seem  again  to  drink  it  —  again  I  attempt  to  kisa 
you !  —  (Tries  to  kiss  her.) 

Mrs.  G.    {Slapping  his  face.)  —  How  dare  you ! 

Wopps.  And  again  you  slap  my  face.  Excuse  me,  I  don't  know 
—  it's  my  head,  as  I  said  before.  Again  my  ardor  —  and  the  rum 
and  water  —  render  me  desperate  !  —  {She  is  hurrying  away  ;  he 
pursues,  and  brings  her  hack.)  — Again  you  attempt  to  fly,  leaving 
me  to  pay  the  waiter  1 

Mrs.  G.    Let  me  go,  sir,  or  

Wopps.  Again  I  seize,  and  frantically  embrace  you !  —  {Em- 
bracing  her.)  —  And  again  — =~ 

Enter  Chops,  suddenly,  r.  door. 

Ghops.    Knuckles  of  veal  and  ribs  of  beef —  here's  a  go ! 

Wopps.    What  business  have  you  here  intruding  on  my  misery? 

Ghops.    What  business  have  you  to  be  cuddling  my  Sarah? 

Wopps.  Did  I  cuddle  you,  Sarah  ?  —  perhaps  1  did  —  I  don't 
know  —  my  head,  as  I  said  before  

Mrs.  G.  Chops,  don't  make  yourself  ridiculous !  —  I  merely 
came  to  borrow  a  flat-iron,  and  he  

Ghops.  Rubbish!  I'll  score  him  like  a  line  of  pork  —  I'll  chop 
his  bones  —  I'll  

Wopps.  Now  you  see,  mum,  through  that  cursed  flat-iron,  I 
shall  be  horribly  mangled. 

Enter  Mrs.  Wopps,  c.  door. 

Mrs.  W.  O,  you  have  come  home!  —  {Running  to  him.) — O, 
John  —  my  dear  John  ! 

Wopps.  {Starting  hack.)  —  Betsy,  Betsy !  don't  approach  me. 
From  information  I  received  

Mrs.  W.    O,  I  have  such  news  for  you ! 

Wopps.  No,  you  haven't  —  it's  no  news.  Horrible  female,  go 
^you  are  discharged  —  and  I  wish  I  could  say  that  you  leave  the 
court  without  a  stain  upon  your  character. 

Mrs.  W.  (To  Chops.)  —  I  understand  you  have  told  him  what 
you  saw. 

Wopps.  No,  I'm  my  own  witness ;  go,  leave  me,  or  I  —  I  don't 
know  what  I  may  do  —  I'm  a  maniac. 

Mrs.  W.    {Laughing.)  —  O,  you  ninny !    Why  ? 

Ghops.  Ah,  you  are  a  nice  pair  —  well  matched  —  for  just  no\* 
I  caught  Wopps  a  cuddling  my  Sarah. 

Mrs.  W.    {Starting.)  — W\\2ii\ 

Mrs.  G.    Mrs.  Wopps,  I  assure  you  

Mrs.  W.    You  did,  villain,  you  did ! 

Wopps.    I  really  don't  know  —  for  my  head,  as  I  said  before. 


12  JOHN  WOPPS. 


Mrs,  W.    O,  you  wretch  —  I'll  leave  you  directly  I 
Wopps,   Leave  me  —  you  have  left  me  —  so,  suppose  I  did  cud 
die  Mrs.  Chops,  what  right  have  you  to  interfere? 
Mrs.  W,    Well,  if  ever  

Chops.  (^Seizing  Wopps.)  —  Perhaps  I  have  no  right  to  mtcr- 
fere,  eh  ?  —  (Shaking  him.)  —  Haven't  I  —  eh  ? 

Wopps.  Chops,  you  shall  be  sorry  for  this  —  I'll  swear  you  tried 
to  murder  me.  The  magistrate  always  believes  a  policeman's 
evidence. 

Mrs.  G.    Chops  —  Mrs.  Wopps  —  I  assure  you  

Chops.    Rascal   7  7   7  •  \ 

Mrs.  W.    (Seizing  Wopps.)  —  Ruffian  I  —  (  They  shake  hir/t.) 
Snug.    {Entering,  c.  d.)— Halloa,  halloa,  Betsy  — what's  the 

matter  now  ?  ,  .         .1    j   x  ^ 

Wopps.  ( Breaking  away.)  —  O,  that's  him  vile  destroyer  ot 
my  domestic  felicity  —  look  at  me  —  I'm  a  maniac. 

Snug.    I  see  you  are.    Betsy,  is  this  Wopps  ? 

Mrs.  W.    Yes,  and  he's  been  a-kissing  this  young  woman. 

Chops.    A  cuddling  my  Sarah. 

Mrs.  C.    (Crying.)  —  O,  this  is  too  much !  .  , 

Wopps.  You're  right,  it  is.  It's  harder  to  swallow  than  the 
rabbit  pie.  I  thought  I  was  the  prosecutor  in  this  case ;  but  it 
seems,  after  all,  that  I'm  the  prisoner  at  the  bar. 

Snug.    Wopps,  I  shan't  allow  these  goings  on. 

Wopps.  Ruffian  — you've  got  your  object;  and  if  I  think  proper 
to  cuddle  every  girl  in  the  parish,  what's  the  odds  to  you? 

Mrs.  W.    {screaming.)— 0,t\\QwvQich\ 

Snug.  (^Seizing  Wopps,  and  shaking  him.) —lv&  my  duty  to 
wring  your  neck.  ,      i  ^ 

Wopps.  Not  when  Fm  on  duty  —  you  mustn  t  —  let  me  go.  — 
{Breaking  away.)  — Whan  wsis  there  a  law  passed  to  authorize 
everybody  to  shake  a  policeman  ? 

Mrs.  C.    It  serves  you  right,  Mr.  Wopps. 

Wopps,    Go  on. 

Chops.    You  are  a  scoundrel. 

Wopps,  Proceed. 

Mrs.  W.    A  deceitful  vagabond. 

Wopps.  Thank  you.  —  {Turning  to  Snug.)  —  It  s  you  next,  1 
believe. 

Snug.  And  an  infernal  peeler.  ^  ^ 
Wopps.  (Starting  violently.)  —  Eh !  that's  a  settler  —  no  man  s 
reason  would  stand  against  it;  consequently,  I'm  a  maniac.  1  ve 
been  injured  and  tortured  by  you  all— goaded  by  the  butcher 
like  a  refractory  bullock,  till  my  head,  as  I  said  before  —  (flourish' 
ing  his  truncheon)  —  I'm  a  maniac ;  if  I  kill  anybody,  you  mustn  t 
prosecute.    Pm  determined  to  commit  slaughter,  and,  to  begin, 

ril  smash  

Omnes.    (Retreating  a  step.)  —  Eh   

Wopps  The  crockery  !  —  (Darts  into  cupboard,  and  hammers 
away  at  the  crockery  with  his  truncheon;  the  women  scream; 


JOHK  WOPPS. 


13 


Mrs.  Wopps  runs  up^  closes  cuphoard  door  upon  Wopps,  \ind 
holts  it ;  the  smashing  of  crockery  continues  ;  women  scream  again ; 
Mrs.  Chops  falls  into  Snug's  arms  ;  Chops  hastens  and  drags 
her  away ;  Mrs.  Wopps  falls  into  Chop's  arms ;  Mrs.  Chops 
pulls  her  away  ;  Mrs.  Chofs  then  falls  into  her  husband's  arms; 
Mrs.  Wopps  into  those  of  Sntjg;  Wopps,  who  has  been  hammer- 
ing away  at  cuphoard  door  with  his  truncheon,  now  hreaUs  a  hole 
in  a  panel,  and  puts  his  head  through,  staring  at  his  wife  as  she 
lies  in  Snug's  arms ;  Mrs.  Wopps  looks  up,  sees  her  husband's 
head,  screams,  and  runs  and  unbolts  the  door ;  the  door  then 
swings  forward,  bringing  Wopps  with  it,  his  head  remaining  in 
the  same  position.) 

Mrs.  W.    Pull  your  head  out. 

Wopps.    {Struggling.)  — I  can't. 

Mrs.  W.    You'll  be  choked. 

Wopps.  I  am.  —  (The  two  women  tug  at  the  tail  of  his  coat  / 
the  two  men  drive  at  his  head  ;  he  is  at  last  liberated,  and  falls  to 
the  ground ;  Chops  and  Snug  raise  and  carry  him  forward,) 

Mrs.  W.  O,  he  is  in  a  swoon.  —  (Kneeling  beside  him,)  — John 
—  Wopps  — John  —  speak  to  your  own  Betsy. 

Wopps.  —  (Seated  on  ground,  and  with  a  vacant  stare.)  —  From 

information  I  received   (Seeing  Snug.)  —  Ah,  there  he  is 

there  he  is ! 

Mrs.  W.    Yes,  thank  goodness,  there  he  is  ! 

Wopps.    (  Groaning.)  —  O  ! 

Mrs.  W.  Why,  you  gaby,  this  is  my  brother  —  just  come  back 
from  Australia. 

Wopps.    (Jumping  up.) — What! 

MrTb.   }    Your  brother! 

Snug.    Sam  Snug  —  Betsy's  big  brother  —  at  your  service. 

Wopps.  Your  brother!  Then  from  information  I  received,  1 
have  every  reason  to  believe  that  I  have  made  a  d — d  fool  of 
myself. 

Snug,  I  should  like  to  see  the  man  that  would  contradict 
you. 

Mrs,  W,    And  he  has  brought  home  such  a  lot  of  money  I 
Wopps,    Then  he's  welcome. 

Snug,    You  and  Betsy  shall  share  my  fortune  with  me. 

Wopps,    Noble  individual ;  you  are  an  honor  to  your  sex  I 

Mrs,  W,    O,  but  I  forgot;  did  you  cuddle  Mrs.  Chops? 

Wopps.    I  don't  know  —  my  head,  as  I  said  before  

Mrs.  G,  He  really  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing.  And  I  beg 
I  may  be  bothered  no  more  about  it. 

Snug,  You  won't ;  for  w^e  shall  retire  into  the  country  —  a  large 
mansion,  with  a  coach-house,  and  a  pig-sty. 

Chops,    Then  I'll  never  be  jealous  no  more,  Sarah. 

Wopps,  And  now  I  shall  retire  into  private  life,  and  live  happy 
ever  after,  with  my  Betsy's  love  and  my  brother-in  law's  money  — 
and  cheered  by  the  proud  consciousness  that,  as  a  member  of  the 


14 


JOHN  WOPPS. 


Force,  I  was  always  at  my  post.  There  was  one  on  my  beat  I  used 
to  lean  against.  And  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  say,  that  I  have 
won  the  entire  approbation  of  a  great  number  of  highly  respecta- 
ble inhabitants  — of  course,  I  shall  name  no  parties,  but  only  say, 
as  usual,  that — from  information  I  received. 


cumxAiir. 


TWO  HEADS 


ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE 


IN    U  JN  IS    AO  A  . 


BT 

LENOX  HOBNE,  £s«. 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


Mr.  Str  ange,  a  painter, 
Mr.  Maxwelton. 
Sammy  Maxwei  ton,  his  son, 
Charles  Con-quest. 
Ellen,  Strangers  niece. 


TtME  OF  EEFBESEsiE&icjCON— Forty  minatok 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


Scene. — A  furnished  apartment.  Two  windows  at  the  hack; 
doors,  L.  u.  E.,  R.  1  E.,  and  r.  u.  b.;  a  number  of  pictures 
copies  of  the  old  masters,  hung  about  the  room,  with  various 
pieces  of  armor,  and  pictures  without  frames  standing  against 
the  walls;  busts  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  on  brackets  or  ped- 
estals ;  at  L.  c.  is  a  table,  a  round  hole  being  cut  in  it,  just 
sxifficient  to  admit  the  head  of  a  man;  a  cover  on  it,  reaching  to 
the  ground,  with  a  slit  in  it  exactlij  where  the  aperture  is  {  fas- 
tened at  each  corner  to  prevent  it  slipping  off—  the  table  must  not 
be  too  large  or  heavy,  and  must  have  large  castors  on  the  legs,  so 
as  to  move  with  facility).  Upon  the  table  are  various  articles 
of  dress-making;  a  pasteboard  head  called  a  dolly,  the  size  of 
life,  with  a  lady's  lace  cap  on  it,  standing  on  one  side  of  the 
table,  on  the  left  of  which  is  a  small  sofa,  while  on  the  right,  at 
some  distance  from  the  table,  is  a  large  easy -chair. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Ellen  is  seen  seated  at  the  table  working  at 
■  the  cap  on  the  false  head,  while  Strange,  ifjith  a  pipkin  in  Ms 
hand,  is  employed  sponging  an  old  picture,  resting  r.  on  an  easel. 

Strange.  Yes,  yes,  it's  coming  out  beautifully !  This  is  a 
lucky  purchase  I  I  can  almost  swear  to  its  being  an  origioal 
Claude.  What  a  fine  brown  autumnal  tint  is  underneath  the 
old  varnish !  It  is  really  worth  your  while,  Ellen,  to  leave  that 
eilly  work  for  a  moment  and  come  and  see  how  fast  I  am  bring- 
ing it  out. 

Ellen.  Ah,  soyou  said,  uncle,  of  the  last  picture  you  restored, 
when  you  rubbed  right  through  the  old  rotten  canvas  to  the 
mahogany  table,  and  took  it  for  a  beautiful  bright  brown  foli- 
age. 

Strange.  Yes,  yes,  I  admit  that  I  entered  a  little  too  deep 
into  the  old  varnish  there.  I  used  a  choice  receipt  of  the 
National  Gallery  with  a  little  more  force  perhaps  than  discre- 
tion. However,  the  main  fault  really  lay  in  my  attempting 
such  delicate  handling  just  as  my  illness  was  coming  on,  and  I 
am  not  strong  enough  yet,  T  find,  to  stand  long  over  the  work, 
much  as  it  delights  me. 


4 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


Ellen,  {aside)  I  must  try  and  get  him  away,  as  I  am  sure 
poor  Charles  has  been  waiting  a  long  time,  {aloud)  Then  had 
you  not  better  try  and  take  a  nap  and  rest  yourself,  for  fear  of 
another  accident  of  the  like  nature  ? 

Strange,  Well,  I  do  feel  fatigued,  and  a  short  nap  will  do  me 
good ;  {looking  at  the  picture  with  admiratiori,  hloimng  something 
off  it)  I  would  not  have  it  injured  for  a  thousand  pounds,  for 
it  will  make  a  marvellous  companion  to  that  greatest  of  all 
landscape  painters,  my  beloved  Turner.  {Exit,  d.  r.  1  e.) 

Ellen,  {rising)  I  must  make  haste  and  give  the  signal  be- 
fore my  uncle  returns,  {opens  one  of  the  windows)  Yes,  there 
he  is,  wiping  his  forehead  in  the  burning  sun.  Poor  dear 
Charles  —  no  matter  what  weather,  rain,  wind,  or  sunshine,  he 
is  always  watching  at  his  post,  {waving  her  handkerchief)  { 
have  left  the  street  door  ajar,  so  that  he  may  enter  without 
being  observed,  {comes  forward)  What  a  life  of  fear  this  is ! 
How  cruel  that  all  the  clever,  handsome,  and  beat-hearted  young 
men,  are  destined  to  be  poor  and  unfortunate !  I  know  my  un- 
cle will  never  listen  to  Charles's  offer  for  my  hand  until  his  cir- 
cumstances are  improved,  for  he  is  always  saying  that  he  hates 
poverty  in  every  shape  and  way,  as  it  sours  the  matrimonial 
temper,  when  people,  to  get  on  nowadays  in  the  world,  must 
appear  to  be  richer  than  their  incomes  will  in  any  way  permit. 

Enter  Charles,  door,  l.  u.  e. 

^  Charles,  Ah,  Ellen,  I  thought  you  would  never  give  the 
signal,  {takes  off  his  hat  and  places  it  on  table,  and  wipes  his 
forehead)  Love  making,  this  weather,  is  decidedly  hot  work 
—  I'm  baked  on  all  sides,  like  a  brick. 

Ellen,  {making  a  sign,  pointing  to  the  door,  where  her  uncle 
entered,  whispering)   Hush !  no  one  saw  you  enter  ? 

Charles.  No,  no  one,  dear  Ellen,  {kisses  her  hand)  Luckily 
your  uncle's  window  looks  out  at  the  back  instead  of  the  front. 
He  still  keeps  to  his  bedroom,  does  he  not  ? 

Ellen.  No,  he  has  been  down  for  a  short  time  this  morning, 
and  may  be  back  shortly,  so  you  must  not  stay  long.  He  will 
soon  be  well  enough  now  to  take  his  daily  walk,  hunting  as 
usual  after  old  pictures. 

Charles.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  with  all  my  heart ;  then  we 
shall  have  our  liberty  as  usual  to  converse  freely  together, 
without  dread  of  interruption.  How  fortunate,  dear  Ellen,  the 
thought  came  into  your  clever  little  head,  of  making  this  paste- 
board beauty  {takes  up  the  false  head  from  the  table)  the  means 
of  our  meeting  so  often,  and  precluding  all  fear  of  discovery. 

Mien,    Yes,  that,  and  his  being  so  extremely  short-sighted. 

Charles,  {smiling)  You  may  say  that.  Why,  the  last  time 
he  treated  you  to  the  theatre,  I  was  watching  you,  although  I 
dare  not  show  myself,  and  in  the  confusion  of  coming  out,  I 
saw  him  run  his  head  slap  against  the  nose  of  a  large  coach 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


5 


horse,  and  then  take  off  his  hat  and  bow  politely,  apologizing 
to  the  animal,  without  ever  being  aware  of  his  mistake. 

Ellen.  I  remember  —  but  let  us,  Charles,  talk  of  something 
more  important  than  my  uncle's  infirmities.  Tell  me— you 
saw  your  lawyer  yesterday  —  what's  he  say?  what  hope  is 
there? 

Charles,  {joyfully)  Every  hope,  dear  Ellen.  The  case  will 
be  positively  decided  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  My  cousin 
has  little  or  no  chance,  and  my  uncle's  property,  as  he  intended,, 
must  all  come  to  me.  Your  uncle,  then,  will  no  longer  upbraid 
me  with  my  poverty,  or  refuse  me  for  a  relation. 

Ellen,  But  let  us  suppose  for  a  moment  that  it  is  not  de- 
cided in  your  favor,  what  becomes  of  our  being  united  then? 

Charles.  Oh,  don't  alarm  yourself,  my  lawyer  is  a  flrst-iate 
hand;  he'd  ensnare  old  Nick  himself,  if  he  had  to  deal  with  him 
on  parchment;  but  even  let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  I 
shall  not  be  long,  I  am  persuaded,  before  I  shall  find  some 
means  of  livelihood,  and  if  you  really  love  me,  you  will  not 
then  refuse  to  be  mine,  although  my  income  may  not  quite 
come  up  to  your  uncle's  mercenary  views  in  the  choice  of  a 
husband. 

Ellen.  Hark !  Qisteiiing  at  the  door,  r.  1  e.)  Yes,  I  hear  him 
coming  -—  quick,  Charles,  to  your  hiding-place  —  I  don't  expect 
he  will  stay  long. 

Charles.  I  hope  he  won't  I'm  sure,  {takes  from  the  table  a 
green  tippet,  which  is  made  to  fall  over  his  shoulders,  and  ties  it 
round  his  neck;  at  the  same  time  he  places  a  close  cap  on  his  head, 
the  color  of  the  false  one,  to  hide  his  hair;  then  gets  quickly  under 
the  table,  and  thrusts  his  head  up  through  the  centre) 

Ellen.  Here  —  you  have  forgotten  your  hat.  (puts  it  under 
the  table,  takes  the  cap  from  the  false  head  and  places  it  on 
Charles's,  arranging  it  to  look  as  like  as  possible.)  Oh!  you 
must  take  care  of  this  too.  (slips  the  false  head  under  the  table) 
Now,  be  prudent,    (looking  to  see  if  her  uncle  is  coming) 

Charles.    I  say,  Ellen. 

Ellen,    (whispering)    Don't  speak  a  word. 

Charles.  Put  your  head  close  to  mine,  I  must  tell  you  some- 
thing. 

Ellen,    (putting  her  face  near  him)    Well,  make  haste. 

Charles,    (kissing  her)    That's  all,  dear. 

Ellen.  Oh,  for  shame,  sir.  (seats  herself  r.  of  the  table,  tak- 
ing up  a  long  piece  of  lace  fastened  to  the  cap  upon  his  hc%d,  and 
begins  working  with  her  needle  upon  it) 

Enter  Strange,  door  r.  1  e. 

Strange.  It's  no  use,  I  can't  sleep ;  my  brain  is  still  working, 
if  my  hands  are  not,  upon  that  picture,  (seats  himself  in  the 
easy-chair)  I  shall  be  strong  enough  I  hope  to-morrow  to  take 
\  walk ;  air  and  exercise  will  soon  restore  me.  (taking  snuff) 


6 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


Ellen.  Poor  uncle,  you  have  had  a  sad  time  of  it.  {aside  to 
Charles)   That's  good  news  for  us. 

Charles.  It  is,  indeed,  for  this  squatting  down  here  like  a 
toad  in  a  hole,  is  anything  but  pleasant. 

Strange,  (looking  at  her)  Why,  what  a  mania  you  have 
taken  lately  for  working  caps ;  I  never  see  you  now  but  you  are 
occupied  before  that  stupid,  ugly  head. 

Charles,  (aside)  Ugly  I  Hang  it,  Ellen,  I'm  not  so  plain  as 
all  that. 

Ellen,    (aside,  making  a  sign)    Silence ! 

Strange,  Everybody  would  suppose  that  you  were  a  milliner 
by  profession,  if  they  did  not  know  to  the  contrary. 

Ellen,  I  admit,  uncle,  that  I  have  a  taste  this  way,  and  I  am 
never  so  happy  as  when  occupied  with  it.  (arranges  cap  — 
Charles  kisses  her  hand) 

Strange,  But  what's  the  use  of  it  ?  I  observe  the  goggle-eyes 
of  that  pasteboard  effigy,  always  staring  at  you,  and  you  always 
at  work  upon  it,  and  yet  you  have  nothing  to  show  for  it. 

Ellen.  How  can  you  say  so,  uncle?  I  made  my  last  new 
bonnet  on^t,  and  I  am  now  finishing  this  cap  for  our  old  friend 
Mrs.  Wigsby,  next  door;  besides,  we  all  have  our  fancies  more 
or  less.  Some  girls  sit  all  day  at  crochet,  others  at  Berlin 
wool ;  you  yourself,  at  one  time,  were  occupied  morning,  noon, 
and  night  scrubbing  up  old  pictures,  until  Mr.  Snap,  the  dealer, 
sold  you  the  original  portrait  of  Shakespeare. 

Strange,  (aside)  Yes,  a  swindling  scoundrel.  It  turned 
out  to  be  the  head  of  an  old  bald-pated  officer  instead  of  Shake- 
speare, for  I  discovered  his  epaulettes  underneath  a  thick  coat 
of  paint,  clever  as  it  was  put  on ;  but  I  don't  quite  see  the  con- 
nection between  my  portrait  of  Shakespeare,  and  your  trumpery 
on  that  stupid  block  there.  (Charles,  indignajit,  opens  his 
mouth  to  speak,  when  Ellen  immediately  claps  her  hand  over  it, 
and  stops  him)  But  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  now,  Ellen,  on  mat- 
ters more  important ;  this  last  illness  of  mine  has  made  me 
reflect  seriously  of  what  is  to  become  of  you  in  the  event  of 
my  death;  you  know  nearly  the  whole  of  my  property  dies  with 
me,  and  it  is  therefore  advisable  for  you  to  settle  in  life. 

Ellen.    How  mean  you,  dear  uncle  ? 
Strange.   Why,  I  must  think  of  getting  you  a  husband. 
Charles,    (taken  by  surprise,  exclaims  aloud)    Oh ! 
Strange,    (turning  round  rapidly)    What's  the  matter  ?  (get- 
ting up)  , 

Ellen.  Nothing,  nothing.  I  ran  the  needle  up  my  nail,  that's 
all.  (aMe  to  Charles)  Are  you  mad?  (aloud)  My  dear 
uncle,  pray  do  not  talk  so,  —  I  hope  you  will  yet  live  for  many 
years,  —  I  do  not  wish  to  leave  you,  and  am  quite  contented  to 
remain  as  I  am. 

Strange,  (sitting  down  again)  Don't  talk  such  nonsense, 
Ellen.   I  must  not  forget  my  duty ;  and  that  is,  to  see  you  weli 


TWO  HEADS  ARB  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


7 


established  in  life.  I  presume  you  are  not  different  to  the  rest 
of  your  sex;  you  do  not  object  to  the  married  state. 

Ellen,  No ;  but  I  had  rather  not  be  sacrificed  for  money,  and 
made  to  marry  a  man  I  could  not  love.  Why  refu^^e  Mr.  Charles 
Conquest?  He  is  well  educated,  —  of  a  good  family,  —  has  no 
vice,  and  never  frequents  those  horrid  places  called  coal  holes, 
dust  holes,  and  cider  cellars,  and  Cremorne,  and  the  Eagle  in 
the  Shades,  and  the  Grecian  in  the  Bower. 

Charles,    (aside^    Bravo,  Ellen. 

Strange.    Stuff  and  nonsense.   What  are  you  talking  about? 
Ellen.   Then  he  expects  to  come  into  a  very  good  property 
shortly. 

Strange.  Yes,  at  doomsday.  Listen,  the  bird  in  the  hand  is 
worth  two  in  the  bush,— he's  not  worth  a  rap,  (takes  out  his 
snuff-box)  not  a  pinch  of  snuff  —  and  never  will  be;  I  know 
him,  —he  is  one  of  those  clever  young  fellows  who  has  both- 
ered his  head  with  so  much,  that  he  don't  know  how  to  apply 
his  cleverness  to  any  useful  purpose. 

Charles,  (aside)  What  a  brutal  old  critic.  (Ellen  makes 
a  sign  for  him  to  be  quiet) 

Strange,  (rising  up  satirically)  To  a  young  girl  love  is  a 
very  fine  thing  no  doubt,  very ;  but  there  never  yet  was  found  a 
receipt  to  teach  you  how  to  live  entirely  upon'it;  you  talk  of 
birth  and  education,  and  I'll  throw  you  in  intellect  and  genius 
as  a  makeweight.  Why,  the  gentleman  in  possession  of  this 
mine  of  intellectual  wealth  has  only  to  appear  in  society  in 
seedy  attire,  not  to  mention  a  hole  in  his  coat,  and  he  will 
immediately  be  kicked  out  of  it.  Your  husband  shall  not  be 
of  this  kidney,  if  I  can  help  it.  The  world  has  no  sympathy 
with  intellectual  poverty,  it  never  had  —  {takes  snuff)  no  more 
have  I,  so  make  no  silly  opposition,  for  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  see  you  richly  married,  and  there's  an  end. 

Ellen,    (aside)   You  hear? 

Charles,  (aside)  When  I  gain  the  lawsuit,  he  will  change 
his  tone. 

Strange.  I  fancy  I  hear  some  one  down  stairs ;  go,  Elleu, 
you  know  who  I  am  at  home  to, 

Ellen,    (aside)   Be  cautious. 

Charles,    (aside)   All  right  —  don't  be  long. 

(Exit  Ellen,  door  l.  u.  e.) 

Strange,  (seats  himself  near  the  table)  Yes— yes,  I  see  I 
must  have  an  eye  on  Mr.  Charles  Conquest,  for  Ellen  has  set 
her  heart  upon  this  youth  more  than  I  thought.  He  had  better 
not  let  me  catch  him  here,  that's  all.  (Charles  makes  a  face 
at  him)  If  they  think  they  can  hoodwink  me  they  never  were 
more  mistaken  in  their  lives.  After  being  taken  in  once  with 
the  head  of  Shakespeare,  I'm  not  likely  to  be  gulled  a  second 
time  with  the  head  of  anything  or  anybody,  for  I  now  suspect 
one  half  the  world  is  secretly  plotting  against  the  other.  Aye 


8 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONlc. 


^  aye,  I've  bought  my  experience  —  my  perception  has  not 
been  sharpened  for  nothing. 

Enter  Ellen. 

Ellen,  It  is  your  old  friend,  Mr.  Maxwelton,  and  that  bright 
youth,  his  son. 

Strange,  Ah,  ah,  my  friend  Maxwelton,  the  Tcry  man  I  was 
anxious  to  see  — that  bright  youth,  that  you  seem  to  turn  up 
your  nose  at,  will  very  shortly  come  into  a  thousand  a-year, 
besides  what  his  father  will  leave  him,  —  ask  them  to  come 
up ! 

Ellen,   I  nodded  to  Mary  over  the  banisters,  that  she  might 
admit  them. 
Strange,   Then  set  two  chairs  ready. 

Ellen,  (aside,  placing  chairs)  How  unfortunate,  their  com- 
ing just  at  this  time,    (aside  to  Charles)    Pray,  be  cautious ! 

Charles,  I  say,  Ellen,  contrive  to  send  them  away  soon,  — 
upon  my  soul,  I'm  getting  the  cramp,  I'm  all  over  pins  and 
needles.  (Ellen  makes  a  sign  for  him  to  he  quiet,  and  seating 
herself,  begins  to  sew  again) 

Enter  Maxwelton  and  his  son  Sammy,  door  l.  u.  e. 

Max,  (shaking  hands)  Ah !  my  old  friend,  I'm  glad  to  see 
you  on  your  legs  again. 

Strange,  Thank  you,  —  thank  you.  (shaking  hands  with  his 
Son)  And  how  are  you,  Mr.  Samuel?  (Sam  nods  his  head 
and  grins  stupidly  without  speaking,  rubbing  his  hand  round  his 
hat,  Ellen  rises  up  from  her  chair  and  makes  a  bow  to  old  Max- 
welton) ^      ,  .    O  N 

Max,  Ah!  good-morning.  Miss  Strange;  (to  his  Son)  go, 
sir,  and  pay  your  respects  to  that  lady ! 

Sam,  (grinning  stupidly)  Ah !  ah !  (going  up  to  her,  nods 
his  head,  and  then  wanders  round  the  room,  vacantly  looking  tip 
at  the  pictures,  (&c.) 

'Strange,  Sit  down,  sit  down,  my  friends,  (calling)  Mr. 
Samuel,  there  is  a  chair  here  for  you. 

Max,  (to  his  Son)  Here,  take  my  hat  and  cane,  (asule:) 
don't  be  wandering  about  the  room  like  a  fool  you  are  no 
longer  a  boy.    (he  sits  down  near  to  Strange) 

Sam.  (taking  the  hat  and  stick)  Oh  !  (vacantly)  then  I'm  a 
man  now  —  when  I'm  out  I  and  a  stupid  ass  when  I'm  at  home, 
am  I? 

Max,  (aside,  out  of  temper)  Go  along  —  take  your  hat  off 
—  don't  expose  yourself  and  me  too. 

(Sajni.  walks  about,  not  knoimig  where  to  put  the  hat  and  sticky 
catches  sight  of  the  busts,  then  with  evident  satisfaction  places  a 
hat  upon  each,  the  stick  on  one  side,  taking  his  seat  next  his  father, 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


9 


who,  in  the  mean  time  has  been  bowing  and  taking  snuff  out  of  tht 
box  of  Strange,  and  Strange  out  of  his) 

Max,  I  have  no  doubt  you  have  thought  me  neglectful  in 
not  calling  ere  this  to  see  you,  but  the  truth  is,  having,  each 
time  I  passed,  that  (looking  at  his  son)  stupid  son  of  mine  with 
me,  I  could  not  get  him  to  come  in  before,  I  believe  because  it 
was  later  in  the  day  than  at  present ;  as  the  daylight  declineja 
his  fear  begins.  (Sam  looks  about  vacantly,  occasionally  making 
faces  and  nervous  twitches  with  his  person,  as  if  inflicted  with  St. 
Vitus's  dance) 

Strange.  I  don't  quite  understand  you ;  why,  what  have  we 
done  to  you,  Mr.  Samuel,  that  you  should  refuse  to  accompany 
your  father  in  his  visit  to  an  old  friend. 

Sam,   Oh  I  oh  I   Papa  knows,  (looking  round  in  alarm) 

Max.  The  fact  is,  two  houses  in  this  street  have,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  neighborhood,  been  shut  up  for  a  number 
of  years.  A  report  is  current  among  the  idle  gossips,  that 
they  are  both  connected  with  some  horrid  murder,  the  detaili^ 
of  which  I  forget,  and  that  a  ghost  has  taken  possession  of  the 
property.  Some  of  the  females  of  my  establishment,  the  old 
cook  among  the  rest,  has  for  years  thoroughly  impressed  him 
with  the  truth  of  this  stupid  story ;  though  I  must  confess 
that  it  does  seem  strange,  the  landlord  should  have  allowed  his 
property  to  remain  so  long  without  a  tenant. 

Strange.  I  am  still  in  the  .dark.  What  has  that  to  do  with 
his  refusing  to  enter  my  house  ? 

Max.  Why,  you,  my  friend,  have  taken  one  of  these  very 
identical  houses. 

Strange.  Havel?  Then  that  accounts  for  my  getting  it  so 
cheap  —  I  took  it  for  seven  years  on  a  repairing  lease ;  well, 
(smiling)  I  have  never  as  yet  met  the  ghost  of  this  murdered 
gentleman  or  lady,  and  so  as  I  cannot  clear  up  the  mysteiy,  it 
must  still  belong  to  the  dread  obscure. 

Max.  The  crime,  I  believe,  was  committed  on  a  young  man ; 
—  so  the  story  goes. 

Sam.  (who  has  been  listening  to  this  in  extreme  alarm)  No, 
papa ;  no,  no  —  on  a  beautiful  young  lady. 

Strange.  Oh,  on  a  lady,  was  it  ?  Ah !  I  believe  female  ghosts 
are  admitted  to  look  better  than  men,  in  their  long  white  bed- 
gowns, (smiling)  Why,  Mr.  Samuel,  (they  all  rise)  I  thought 
you  had  grown  too  much  of  a  man  to  put  faith  in  such  idle 
stories ;  you'll  try  to  persuade  me  next  that  you  are  afraid  to 
go  to  bed  in  the  dark. 

Sam.  And  so  I  am.  I  always  look  up  the  chimney,  and 
under  the  bed,  for  fear  of  thieves ;  I  burn  a  rushlight  too. 

Strange,  (smiling)  What  for?  That  will  not  stop  the  rob- 
bers. 

Sa7n.  Yes  it  will.  If  there's  a  light,  they're  done  for.  I 
know  that  —  but  you  are  only  trying  of  me.   (with  satisfaction) 


10 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  you  think,  (retires  nodding  to  Mm,  smil- 
ing stupidly,  looking  round  the  room  at  the  pictures,  &c.) 

3Iax.  (aside)  You  know  he  had  a  blow  cq  the  head  when 
quite  a  boy,  which,  I  fear,  has  not  helped  his  intellect  as  a  man  ; 
he  read,  too,  in  a  long  illness,  clean  through  an  antiquated 
circulating  library  —  the  "  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,"  and  all  tii.it 
far-fetched  rubbish  of  the  old  school,  has,  I  believe,  affected 
his  imagination  so  deeply,  that  he  fancies  the  ghosts  of  mur- 
dered people  are  only  waiting  a  fit  opportunity  to  make  their 
appearance  before  him. 

Strange,  But  I  thought  a  celebrated  surgeon  had  told  you 
that  he  might,  in  a  few  years  more,  outgrow  the  effects  of  the 
blow  on  his  head. 

Max.  Yes,  possibly,  through  some  great  change  in  his  phys- 
ical or  mental  constitution,  (goes  up  stage  and  looks  at  a  pio 
ture,  R.) 

Strange,  (aside,)  An  idea  has  just  struck  me !  What  greater 
change  than  to  jump  from  a  single  to  a  married  life  ?  If  that's 
not  both  a  mental  and  physical  revolution,  I  don't  know  what 
is.  (looks  at  Samuel,  who  is  with  his  father)  The  young  man 
is  rich  —  it  would  be  an  advantageous  match  for  Ellen. 

Charles,  (aside)  Ellen,  I  can  read  your  uncle's  thoughts ;  — 
he  is  projecting  a  marriage  between  that  rich  idiot  and  your- 
self. 

Mien,    (aside)  I'll  starve  and  die  first. 

Strange,  Mr.  Samuel !  here,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you.  Now 
you  have  grown  up  a  man,  have  you  never  thought  of  taking  a 
wife? 

Sam,    (laughing  stupidly)  He,  he,  he,  he ! 
Strange,   You  are  well  ofi" —  descended  from  a  good  family, 
too  — you  must  keep  up  the  name  of  the  Maxweltons. 
Sam,   He,  he,  he,  he ! 

Strange,  (c.)  Your  very  name  is  provocative  to  love. 
"  Maxwelton  braes  are  bonny" — so  the  old  song  says  —  and 
all  the  vocal  world  is  still  running  after  Annie  Laurie.  Surely 
you  will  not  be  left  without  a  bride. 

Sam,    (r.  c.)    He,  he,  he,  he ! 

Max,  (r.  — aside)  Can't  you  say  anything  besides  he,  he, 
he?" 

Sam.    (aside)  Oh,  what  shall  I  say  ? 

Max,  (aside)  Say,  "  I  must  beg  leave  to  difl"er  with  you  "  — 
or,  "  I  quite  agree  to  that "  —  according  to  the  subject.  (Samuel 
mutters  to  himself  as  if  rehearsing  what  his  father  had  told  him, 
then  looks  again  at  the  pictures  hung  up  about  the  room) 

Strange,  (aside)  I  must  find  some  means  of  sending  Ellen 
and  that  youth  out  of  the  room ;  I  can  then  broach  this  matri- 
monial project  of  mine  to  the  father,  without  fear  of  its  being 
known  before  the  time,  (aloud)  Mr.  Samuel,  I  observe  you 
admire  my  pictures  ? 

Sam.   I  must  beg  leave  to  difier  with  you. 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


11 


Strange.    Oh !  then  you  think  I  have  been  taken  in  ?  —  they 
are  not  originals,  but  copies ?  —  wretched  daubs,  in  fact,  eh? 
Sam.    I  quite  agree  to  that. 
Max,    (aside)    The  blundering  booby. 
Strange,    (in  astonishment)    Do  you? 

Max,  (aside)  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  —  exposing  me  as  weli 
as  yourself. 

Sam,  There's  no  pleasing  of  you,  no  how.  I  said  what  you 
told  me. 

Strange,  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Samuel,  to  hear  you  pass  such  a 
sweeping  condemnation  on  my  collection  of  oil  paintings ;  I 
have  some  rare  prints  up  stairs,  —  would  you  like  to  see  them  ? 
my  niece  there,  Miss  Ellen,  will  accompany  you. 

Sam,  According  to  the  subject,  (aside  to  Ms  father)  That's 
right. 

Max,    (aside)    Oh,  he's  incurable. 

Strange  According  to  the  subject'*  —  Oh  yes,  — the  sub- 
jects are  numerous,  and  executed  by  a  variety  of  masters  — 
Ellen,  take  young  Mr.  Maxwelton  with  you.  You  know  in 
which  portfolio  they  are  ? 

Ellen,  There  are  so  many  portfolios !  Indeed,  uncle,  I  don't 
remember. 

Strange,  (aside,  crossly)  Yes,  you  do  —  why  make  a  difficulty 
of  that  which  ought  to  be  a  pleasure  ?  I  wish  to  say  a  few 
words  alone  to  Mr.  Maxwelton. 

Mien,  (aside  to  Charles)  I  dread  some  accident  in  my  ab- 
sence. 

Charles,  (aside)  Never  fear,  I  shall  overhear  their  plans, 
and  we  can  then  act  accordingly. 

Strange.  Now,  Mr.  Samuel,  my  niece  is  waiting  to  conduct 
you. 

Sam,    (grinning  stupidly)    He,  he,  he,  he ! 

Max,    (aside)   He's  at  his  damned  "  he,  he !  "  again. 

Mien,    (r.  —  to  Sam)    I  am  waiting,  sir,  your  pleasure. 

Sam,    (aside  to  his  father)    What  shall  I  do  ? 

Max,    (aside,  whispering  softly)    Take  her  hand 

Sam,    (not  quite  heariny)   Take  her  what  ? 

Max,    (aside)   Her  hand. 

Sam,   Oh,  what  shall  I  say? 

Max,  (aside,  in  a  passion)  Oh,  you  are  a  pretty  subject  to 
have  to  do  with,    (turns  away  in  disgust) 

Sam,  (taking  the  offered  hand  of  Ellen)  He,  he,  he,  he !  yes 
miss,  — he,  he,  he,  he!  yes,  — *'you  are  a  pretty  subject  to 
have  to  do  with." 

(Exit,  leading  her  out  awkwardly  at  door,  r.  u.  e.) 

Max,    (aside,  sighing)    Ah,  I  believe  he  is  beyond  cure. 

Strange.  I  wish  to  make  a  proposition  to  you,  —  we  are  such 
old.  friends,  that  I  know  I  may.  do  so  without  reserve,  or  cre- 
ating a  diminution  in  our  friendship,  should  you  view  the  mat- 
ter in  a  diflferent  light  to  myself. 


12  TAVO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


Max.    To  be  sure ;  what  is  it !    {theg  both  sit  dmrn) 
Strange,    We  know  each  other  well,  and  each  other  s  circuni 
stances,  so  there  is  so  necessity  to  beat  about  the  bnsh ;  you 
have  an  only  son,  — I  have  an  only  niece ;  true,  I  can't  portion 
her  off  as  you  can  your  son. 
Max,    Well,  what  of  that? 

Strange,  I  know,  likewise,  money  is  not  your  object.  What 
say  you  to  the  young  folks  making  a  match  of  it  ? 

Max,  My  dear  friend,  I  feel  highly  honored  by  your  prop- 
osition; nothing  would  give  me  greater  delight  could  it  be 
managed :  but  there  are  two  or  three  insurmountable  difficul- 
ties. 

Charles,    (aside)    Thank  goodness. 

Strange,    I  dont  see  them.    What  are  they? 

Max,  In  the  first  place,  your  niece  would  never  consent, 
and  I  don't  blame  her  for  it;  you  must  see,  to  my  misfor- 
tune, that  my  son  has  little  or  no  brains,  lacks  understanding, 
and  in  fact,  three  parts  of  a  fool. 

Charles,    (aside)    Quite  a  fool,  I  should  think. 

Max,  Your  niece,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  clever,  talented  eiri, 
full  of  health  and  spirit ;  and  what  is  better  still  in  the  affairs 
of  life,  she  seems  to  possess  practical  good  sense. 

Strange,  Granted;  and  just  as  it  should  be.  Iler  super- 
abundant talent  will  make  up  for  j'our  son's  deficiency  —  that's 
the  true  balance  of  power :  besides,  according  to  Lavater,  hap- 
piness is  produced  by  contrast.  Two  of  a  trade,  you  know, 
never  agree;  —  so,  you  see,  that  part  of  your  objection  is,  I 
hope,  set  aside. 

Max,    Still,  it  does  not  give  your  niece's  consent. 

Strange,  Oh,  there's  no  fear  of  that.  She's  an  amiable,  trac- 
table girl.   I'll  answer  for  her  consent  before  long. 

Charles,    (aside)    Don't  make  quite  so  sure  of  it. 

Max,  I  won't  deny  that  I  should  like  to  see  my  son  married 
—  if  he  marries  at  all  —  to  just  such  a  pretty,  clever  girl  as 
your  niece;  but  you  have  forgotten,  setting  aside  mental  dis- 
qualification, the  difference  in  their  ages.  Now,  I  think  the 
man  should  be  at  least  ten  years  older  than  the  woman, 
whereas  your  niece  must  be  four  or  five  years  older  than  my 
son.    (they  both  rise) 

Strange,  Oh,  that  is  an  absurd  objection !  besides,  you  are 
in  error ;  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  twelvemonths'  difference  in 
their  ages. 

Max,  My  friend,  you  forget  I  know  when  she  was  born.  I'll 
take  you  three  to  one  —  she  is  four  years,  within  a  month  or 
two,  older. 

Strange.  Agreed !  —  I'll  prove  it  in  a  second.  Come,  you 
shall  see  the  register  of  her  birth ;  at  the  same  time  I'll  show 
you  an  old  picture  I  am  doing  up  of  Prometheus  chained  to 
the  rock.  (Exeunt^  n.  u.  e.) 

Charles,    {turning  his  hfad  after  them^  blowing)  Prometheus 


TWO  HEADr>  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE.  13 


chained  by  his  rock  never  had  the  cramp  as  I  have  —  he  could 
contrive  to  stretch  his  legs,  which  is  more  than  I  can  do  in  this 
attitude.  Come  what  may,  I  must  change  my  position,  if  only 
for  half  a  minute,  {crawls  from  under  table,  limping,  and  rub- 
bing Ms  shins)  Ah,  bless  my  soul,  what  a  relief!  no  one  knows 
the  luxury  of  standing  upright  on  his  legs,  until  he  has  been 
trussed  like  a  fowl  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  So  they  are 
contriving  a  marriage  between  that  booby  arid  my  Ellen ;  — 
well,  I  forbid  the  bans,  (seats  himself  on  sofa)  Where  is  she 
all  this  time?  (listens,  going  to  door)  Hang  it,  here's  somebody 
coming !  I  must  resume  my  painful  position  again ;  —  hide  my 
diminished —  (craivls  under  the  table,  thrusting  his  head  uj)  again) 
—  not  head,  but  body.  I  wonder  how  long  I  am  to  remain 
squatting  here  like  a  hare  on  her  form  ? 

Enter  Samuel,  r.  d. 

(aside)  Oh !  it's  that  asinine  specimen  of  the  human  race,  my 
rival ! 

Sam.  (looking  round)  Oh !  there's  no  one  here !  Where  are 
they  gone?  I  don't  like  to  be  left  alone  in  a  haunted  house 
like  this  — the  carpet  covers  the  floor,  and  the  blood  spots  are 
underneath; — murder's  never  washed  out,  they  say  —  even 
soda-water  won't  do  it,  'cos  it's  been  tried.  I'm  sorry  I  left 
miss  up  stairs  —  he,  he,  he,  he  !  she's  gentle,  so  I  don't  mind 
her;  she's  nice,  too  —  I  should  soon  like  her,  even  better  than 
our  old  cook,  or  old  nurse  Susan  either. 

Charles,  (aside)  1  should  thin^  you  would,  you  stupid 
bump. 

Sam,  She's  got  such  a  little  soft  hand,  too  —  he,  he,  he,  he  J 
That's  funny ;  it's  better  than  cook's,  'cos  her  fingers  are  red, 
and  fat,  and  short,  and  greasy. 

Charles,  (aloud,  forgetting  himself)  Why,  curse  the  fellow, 
he's  really  beginning  to  take  a  fancy  to  my  Ellen.  He's  not 
quite  such  an  idiot  after  all. 

Sam.  (looking  round  in  alarm)  W^iat's  that?  It's  a  voice 
in  the  air !  —  ghosts  live  in  the  air !  (calling)  Papa,  papa ! 
Oh,  I  wish  I  hadn't  come  here.  It  don't  speak  any  more !  Oh, 
if  it  was  dark  —  pitch  dark ;  that's  the  time  of  day  for  them  — 
I  wouldn't  be  here  then  for  ail  the  world.  I  know  they  can't 
appear  or  hurt  any  one  in  the  daylight  —  that's  a  comfort.  I 
wish  papa  would  make  haste,  though;  — he  won't  ever  catch 
me  here  again,  I  lay.    I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  people  say  I  am. 

Charles,    (aside)    It  would  be  deuced  hard  to  match  you. 

Sam.  (catching  sight  of  Strange's  snuff-box  on  the  table  — 
taking  it  up)    I  knoAV  what  this  is ;  —  it's  a  snuflf-box. 

Charles,    (aside)    Wonderful  intelligence ! 

Sam.  (trying  to  open  the  box  by  various  ways)  It  won't  open 
like  pa's,  (feels  in  his  pocket)  If  I  had  my  knife,  row,  I'd  do 
it;  but  I  haven't  got  it,  so  I  can't,  (goes  to  the  table,  andsiu 
2 


14 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


rlown  in  the  chair  that  Ellen  occupied)  Ali !  miss's  scissors  — 
they'll  open  it.  {makes  an  effort  to  open  it  'with  the  scissors,  a  an 
drops  the  box  just  under  the  nose  of  Ciiatu.es)  There,  now,  Mr. 
Strange  will  hnd  me  out,  for  I've  spilt  all  t]ic  snuiF.  (rHAKi.Es 
makes  a  noise  luith  his  mouth,  as  if  blowing  the  snuff  away)  Oh, 
oh! — it's  alive!  {rushing  back  staring  at  Cilahlks,  who  ojoens 
his  eyes  and  mouth  two  or  three  times  before  sneezing  outright) 

Charles,  Infernal!  —  he  has  nearly  choked  me  with  simff. 
(sneezes) 

Sam.  (in  a  fright,  getting  near  the  sofa)  Oh!  help,  help!  - 
papa!  papa! 

Charles.  Silence,  you  idiot,  or  I'll  knock  your  brains  out  — 
that  is,  if  you've  got  any. 

Sa7n.  (in  excessive  fright)  It's  the  ghost  of  the  murdered 
lady!  —  help!  help!  (makes  an  ffort  to  run,  hut  is  stopped  by 
Chakles,  who  wheels  the  table,  ivhich  runs  upon  castors,  in  his 
way) 

Charles,  No,  I'll  be  hanged  if  you  shall  give  the  alarm  —  I'll 
throttle  you  first. 

Sam,  (falling  back  on  sofa)  Oh !  don't  throttle  me  —  don't 
murder  me !  —  mercy !  mercy !  (hides  his  face  in  his  arms  on  the 
sofa,  and  kicks)    Oh !  oh ! 

Charles,  (wheels  the  table  into  its  place  again)  Silence,  I  say 
—  don't  be  alarmed!  look  at  me,  you  stupid  fool  —  I'm  no 
ghost. 

Unter  Ellen,  r.  d. 

Mien.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Mr.  Samuel?  (tries  to  lift 
him  up) 

Sam,  (not  looking)  Oh,  mercy !  Ah !  (shrieking)  its  hands 
are  as  cold  as  ice. 

Mien,   (aside  to  CiiARiMs)    How  has  this  happened? 

Charles,  (aside)  He  dropped  some  snuff  just  under  my 
nose,  so  that  the  devil  himself  could  not  help  sneezing. 

Mien.  Oh,  dear  Charles,  we  shall  be  discovered — there  is 
no  help  for  it.  Stay,  I  have  it! — hide  yourself  under  the 
table,  and  give  me  the  pasteboard  head.  (Charles  disappears, 
lifts  up  the  cover,  and  gives  Ellen  the  model,  dropping  the  cover 
again)  Rise,  Mr.  Samuel,  indeed  there  is  nothing  to  fear. 
(hides  the  head  behind  her) 

Sam.  (lifts  ^ip  his  head,  and  seeing  Ellen,  rises  quickly)  Oh, 
miss,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!  It's  the  spirit!  (pointing  to 
table)    Why,  it's  vanished! 

Ellen,  Oh,  it  must  be  fancy,  (showing  the  false  head)  Look, 
this  is  what  you  saw. 

Sam.  (starting  back  in  alarm)  Ah !  (looking  at  it)  She  had 
a  cap  on !  —  oh,  lor',  have  mercy,  it's  burnt  ofi'  in  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, and  that's  all  that's  left  of  the  (calling  loudly)  Papal 

papa  I 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


15 


Mien,  (throwing  head  over  back  of  sofa  in  alarm^  talcing  hii 
hand)  Now  my  good  youDg  man,  pray  be  quiet !  Don't  ay 
out  any  more ;  you  may  be  sure  that  I  would  not  stay  here  ii 
there  were  any  danger ;  nothing  comes  to  hurt  me. 

Sam.    Don't  it?   Oh,  then  I'm  safe  with  you  

Ellen,  (coaxing  him)  To  be  sure  you  are ;  come,  sit  down. 
(takes  him  to  sofa,  both  sitting  doimi)  Surely  you  are  not 
frightened  to  be  alone  with  me !  are  you? 

Sam.  (keeping  her  hand,  and  looking  at  her)  No,  no !  not 
with  you.    (smiling)    He,  he,  he !    I'll  do  all  you  ask  me. 

Charles,  (aside,  lifting  up  cover)  I'll  be  shot  if  he's  not 
going  to  make  love  to  my  Ellen ! 

Ellen.    Well,  you  must  not  squeeze  my  hand  quite  so  tight. 

Sam.    Oh !  but  I  like  it. 

Ellen.   Yes,  but  you  must  let  go  now,  — pray,  let  go. 
Sam.    No,  I'd  rather  not,  thank  you. 

Charles,  (lifting  up  cover,  aside)  Oh !  I'm  not  going  to  stand 
this,  I  know,    (drops  cover) 

Ellen.  As  you  see  you  were  frightened  without  cause,  you 
won't  say  anything  to  your  father  or  my  uncle,  about  this  silly 
head  you  took  for  a  ghost,  will  you  ? 

Sam.  No,  no ;  but  I  don't  like  this  house,  so  you'll  come 
and  see  me  at  home,  won't  you  ?  I'm  not  afeard  there. 

Ellen.    Very  well,  but  let  go  my  hand  now. 

Sam.    I  can't,  he,  he,  he !    I  feel  as  if  I  was  getting  tipsy. 

Charles,  (lifting  up  table  cover)  Oh,  damn  it !  I  can't  stand 
this  any  longer,    (thrusts  out  his  leg  and  gives  him  a  kick) 

Sam.  (catches  sight  of  his  leg  and  exclaims  in  alarm)  Oh ! 
there,  there !  the  ghost  without  a  head,  (starts  up  in  horror, 
rushes  to  the  large  chair  halloiyig  Papa,  papa,"  hides  his  head  in 
it,  and  kicks  until  he  pitches  himself  and  the  chair  over,  where  he 
lies  until  picked  up  by  Mk.  Strange.  Charles  comes  from  the 
table,  runs  up  to  Sam,  and  piles  one  or  two  pictures  over  him  as  he 
lay  sprawling  on  the  floor) 

Charles,    (in  alarm  to  Ellen)    What's  to  be  done  now  ? 

Ellen.  Quick,  quick?  get  beneath  the  table  again,  there  is 
no  help  —  we  must  risk  the  discovery,  (he  gets  beneath  the  table 
and  puts  his  head  through  as  usual) 

Charles.   I  say,  Ellen,  where's  the  false  head? 

Ellen.  Hush!  there's  no  time  to  get  it  now,  they  are 
here  — 

Enter  Strange  and  Maxwelton,  hastily,  r.  d. 

Strange,  (addressing  Ellen)  Good  gracious,  what's  all  this 
noise  about?  (see/izpr  Samuel  on  the  floor,  Strange  a?z(^  Max. 
pick  him  up) 

Max.    (to  Ellen)    Pray,  tell  us  what's  the  cause  of  this. 
Ellen.    Why,  he  foolishly  got  in  hlF  head  that  there  was  a 
spirit. 


16 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


\ 


Sam.  Oil  no,  it's  not  mmy  head,  it's  in  that  head,  {points  to 
Charles)  Don't  go  near  it,  papa,  (taking  his  arm)  Make 
haste  —  come  along  —  let's  leave  this  haunted  house ;  I  knew  it 
—  I  said  it  was  lull  of  ghosts. 

3Iax,  My  poor  boy,  you  are  getting  worse  and  worse  every 
day ;  did  you  ever  know  me  to  tell  you  a  falsehood?  (Samuel 
has  his  attention  fixed  on  the  head)    Answer  me,  sir! 

Sam,    {his  attention  still  fixed  on  the  head)  No,  papa,  — no. 

Max,  Then  I  say,  I'll  forfeit  my  existence  if  there  is  an /• 
thing  alive  here  but  ourselves  :  you  see  none  of  us  are  alarmed* 

Sam.  {pointing  to  Charles)  There,  there  —  again,  I  saw 
her  eyes  move  —  she  winked  at  me  —  she'll  throttle  me,  she 
said  she  would ! 

Max,  {i7i  a  passion)  For  shame  —  you  are  worse  than  a 
baby.  But  I'll  end  this  childish  nonsense ;  you  shall  put  your 
hand  upon  it  —  that  wull  bring  you  to  your  senses,  {attempts  to 
drag  him  up  to  the  head) 

Sam.  {struggling)  Oh!  no  —  no  —  no! — papa!  —  papa!  — 
no  —  no ! 

Strange,  {stopping  him)  My  dear  friend,  leave  him  to  me ; 
I'll  give  him  a  proof  that  he  is  wrong  in  a  minute,  {takes  up 
the  stick  of  Maxwelton)  Look  here,  Mr.  Samuel,  {goes  tow- 
ards the  table) 

Ellen,    {aside  in  alarm)    Oh,  mercy!  what's  he  going  to  do? 

3Iax,  This  head  is  made  of  pasteboard.  With  one  blow  of 
this  stick  I'll  shatter  it  to  pieces,  and  you  shall  pick  up  the 
bits.   Will  that  convince  you?    {lifts  his  stick,  about  to  strike) 

Ellen,  {rushing  forward,  preventing  him)  Oh,  dear  uncle, 
stay !  you  must  not  —  it  will  be  death  to  — - 

Strange,  {pushing  her  on  one  side)  Nonsense I'll  buy  you  a 
better  head  for  ninepence.  {he  raises  his  stick,  and  as  he  strikes 
at  the  head  Charles  bobs  beneath  the  table,  and  the  stick  stnkes 
the  table  with  a  loud  noise ;  immediately  after  Charles  stands  up, 
with  the  table  resting  on  his  shoulders;  they  all  start  in  alarm, 
and  lohen  Charles  moves  toicards  them,  they  huddle  round  each 
other  in  fright) 

Ellen.  Indeed,  uncle,  I'm  very  sorry  that  this  should  have 
happened. 

Strange,    {to  Ellen)    What  is  all  this  mummery  ?  —  who  is 
it?   Answer  me,  for  I  see  you  know. 
Ellen,    {taking  out  her  handkerchief,  crying^   Pardon,  pardon, 
dear  uncle. 

Strange,    Pardon  who  ? 

Charles,  {letting  down  the  table,  crawling  out)  It's  in  vain, 
I  see,  to  attempt  any  further  concealment,  {takes  the  lady's 
cap  off  his  head) 

Max.  {aside)  I  see  now;  the  spirits  walk  here  to  some 
purpose. 

Strange.    So,  Mr.  Charles  Conquest ! 

Charles,    Yes,  sir ;  you  refused  me  the  hand  of  your  niece, 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 


17 


and  forbid  me  the  house;  our  love  for  each  other  was  too 
strong  to  be  easily  cast  aside  —  we  were  thus  forced  upon  this 
stratagem. 

Strange,  (to  Ellen)  And  you  connived  ~  assisted  him  in 
this  deception.  These  are  the  tricks  you  play.  Your  eternal 
occupation  of  cap-making  —  'tis  now  explained.  This  —  (snatch- 
imj  the  cap  out  the  hand  of  Charles)  this  was  made,  no  doubt, 
for  our  old  friend  Mrs.*  Wigsby,  next  door,    (mocking  her) 

We  all  have  our  fancies  —  our  hobbies,  more  or  less,  dear 
uncle ! some  girls  sit  all  day  at  crochet,  others  at  Berlin 
wool,  while  I  scrub  up  old  pictures  morning,  noon,  and  night. 
(pitching  the  cap  at  her)  For  shame,  for  shame !  (turning  to 
Charles)  And  you,  sir,  who  have  compromised  the  character 
of  my  niece,  and  the  reputation  of  my  house  

Charles.  I  offered,  sir,  to  marry  your  niece  —  I  do  still;  — 
what  can  a  man  of  honor  say  or  do  more?  (speaks  aside  to 
Ellen) 

Max.  (aside)  Come,  come,  my  old  friend,  don't  be  hard  on 
them ;  we  should  not  forget  that  we  were  once  young  our- 
selves. I  can't  deceive  myself.  It  would  be  sacrificing  her  to 
marry  my  son,  while  he  is  just  the  man  for  her  in  every  way. 

Strange.  You  are  out  of  your  senses  I  Why,  he's  worth  no 
more  than  he  stands  up  in.  What  must  be  the  result  of  such  a 
union?  —  poverty  invariably  swarms  with  children,  and  I  should 
have  to  keep  them  all. 

Max.  You  are  in  error  — he  must  come  into  his  uncle's 
property.  I  know  his  opposing  counsel,  who  told  me  for  cer- 
tain that  he  should  lose  the  cause.  Before  two  days  are  over 
he'll  be  a  rich  man. 

Straiige.    You  don't  say  so ! 

Max,    I'll  take  my  oath  of  it. 

Strange.  That  quite  alters  the  case,  (aloud)  Here,  Ellen  — 
Mr.  Conquest  —  a  word  with  you  both,  (they  advance  on  each 
side  of  him)  I  see  opposition  is  in  vain  —  that  you  have  set 
your  hearts  upon  each  other,  (joins  their  hands)  There,  you 
have  my  consent,  Mr.  Conquest,  as  soon  as  you  can  prove  to 
me  that  you  are  able  to  keep  a  wife. 

Ellen.    Thanks,  thanks,  dear  uncle. 

Charles.  Sir,  I  am  much  beholden  to  you.  Mr.  Samuel, 
(taking  his  hand)  I  trust  there  is  no  ill-feeling  between  us  ? 

Sam,    What  makes  people  play  at  ghosts  ? 

Charles.  Why,  in  this  case/ my  friend,  you  see,  it  was  to 
gain  a  wife,  (takes  the  hand  of  Ellen  and  brings  her  forward 
—  addressing  audience)  And  I  trust  that  our  friends  here 
will  admit  that  on  some  occasions,  Two  Heads  are  betteb 
THAN  One. 

R      Max.      Sam.      Charles.      Ellen.  Strange, 


CURTAIN. 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


%  imt, 

IN   ONK  ^CT. 


BY  MRS.  J.  TR,  PLANCHB. 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


CHAKACTERS. 


Sir  Owen  larKiFFims, 
Alfred,  Ms  Nephew,  . 
David  Jonk*   •     .  . 


Julia. 
Dora. 


Olympic, 
London, 
1830. 

.  Jlr.  1 .  Matthews. 
.  Mr.  J.  Bland. 
.  Mr.  Salter. 

.  Madame  Vestris. 
•  Mrs.  Tayleure. 


Oltpmpio, 
Boston, 
1848. 
Mr.  D.  Whiting. 
Mr.  Bland. 


Mrs.  W.  H.  Smith. 
Mrs.  Penson. 


(a) 


.THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


Scene.  —  An  apartment  in  an  old  house  of  Sir  Owen  Griffiths, 
in  Wales.  Door  at  the  hack  of  the  stage  leading  into  the  hall. 
Doors  right  and  left  to  the  different  apartments.  Chairs,  tahle^ 
sofa,  ^c.  Alfred  discovered  sitting  at  table,  reading.  David 
Jones  is  heard  speaking,  as  if  to  servants. 

Dav.    Yes,  I  tell  you  he'll  be  here  directly ;  so  make  haste,  and 
get  hirn  a  good  dinner. 
Alf.    What's  that  I  hear? 

JEnter  David. 

You  here,  David ! 

Dav.    Yes  ;  here  I  am. 

Alf.  (Aside.)  —  Blunt  as  ever.  —  (Aloud.)  —  What  chance  has 
given  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company,  pray? 

Dav.  No  chance  ;  but  the  commands  of  Sir  Owen.  I  have  been 
sent  forward  to  announce  his  arrival. 

Alf.  My  uncle  on  his  road  hither?  What  the  deuce  has  brought 
him  down  here,  to  a  place  he  has  not  been  near  for  the  last  ten 
years  of  his  life,  at  least? 

Dav.  One  of  his  whims ;  he  wants  to  see  his  steward,  he  says, 
and  to  ascertain  what  sort  of  condition  the  old  house  is  in  — he'll 
be  pleased  to  find  you  here. 

Alf  Do  you  think  so?  I  came  here  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Welsh  air. 

Dav.  And  ale,  I  suppose  ;  the  Welsh  ale,  you  know  —  (smacks 
his  lips)  —  capital  stufi"! 

Alf.  Capital  stufi",  indeed,  David.  But  I  was  tired  of  London 
and  its  gayeties  and  gravities :  the  former,  of  necessity,  introduces 
one  to  the  latter  —  one  goes  on  heedlessly  enjoying  one's  self  for 
the  time  with  the  gayest  of  the  gay  —  when,  suddenly,  one's  career 
is  arrested  by  a  regiment  of  most  grave  and  potent  creditors ;  and 
that  spoils  all,  you  know,  David. 


4 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


Dav,    Ay,  I  dare  say  it  does ;  but  never  mind ;  a  good  marriage 
will  settle  all  that  for  you. 
Alf.    Indeed ! 

Dav,  Yes  ;  Sir  Owen  has  got  an  excellent  match  in  his  eye  for 
you.  And  I've  no  doubt,  if  you  consent,  and  don't  make  any  fuss 
about  it  —  and  why  should  you  ?  —  he'll  pay  all  your  debts  again. 

Alf»  {Smiling,)  —  He'll  never  pay  them,  David,  upon  those  con- 
ditions. 

Dav.  Ah,  take  care  what  you  are  about !  you  know  how  pas- 
sionate and  whimsical  Sir  Owen  is.  Take  my  advice,  and  marry 
anybody.  * 

Alf.  It's  not  to  be  done,  David !  There  is  an  insurmountable 
obstacle,  David  —  I  am  already  married ! 

Dav,  The  devil  you  are !  And,  of  course,  you  have  married 
the  very  girl  that  Sir  Owen  insisted  on  your  not  marrying? 

Alf.  Precisely. 

Dav.    And  without  any  money? 

Alf.    Not  a  shilling. 

Dav.    You  have  done  very  wrong. 

Alf,  I  can't  help  it,  David.  Couldn't  you  have  guessed,  now, 
that  there  must  have  been  something  very  particular  that  would 
make  me  come  and  live  here,  even  for  a  single  day?  By  Jove,  I 
wouldn't  remain  in  this  crazy  old  castle  half  a  minute  by  myself 
for  a  dukedom. 

Dav,  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  she  is  with  you  here  ? 
Alf,    In  this  very  house. 

Dav,  Then  it's  all  over  with  you  —  you'd  better  have  shot  your- 
self—  ay,  much  better,  for  then  you'd  have  been  provided  for. 

Alf.    Ha !  ha  I  ha !  —  very  pleasantly,  certainly. 

Dav.  Yes,  it's  all  very  well  to  laugh  now;  but  you  won't  laugh 
if  Sir  Owen  should  catch  a  glimpse  of  your  lady. 

Alf,  I  know  my  danger — I've  smuggled  a  wife  —  one  of  the 
sort  altogether  prohibited  —  not  admitted  to  duty.  It  would  play 
the  deuce  with  me  in  my  uncle's  exchequer  

Air,  —  Alfred.    ' '  New  Yea^^^s  Night," 

Pride,  the  coast  of  joy  blockading, 

Would  declare  Iier  contraband; 

And  for  thus  his  laws  evading, 

Seize  —  condemn  —  the  goods  I'd  land. 

Spurning  customs  mean  and  narrow, 

Which  would  make  of  hearts  a  trade, 

Our's  both  marked  by  Love's    broad  arrow,"*^ 

Duty  but  to  Hymen  paid. 

Spurning,"  &c. 

Well,  but  tell  me  what's  to  be  done?  What  can  we  do  with  her  to 
keep  her  out  of  my  uncle's  sight? 

Dav.    Lock  her  up  in  one  of  the  empty  rooms. 

Alf.  O,  that  won't  do  —  she  wouldn't  agree  to  that,  I  can  tell 
you  —  she  is  a  little  headstrong  body,  very  fond  of  having  her  own 
way. 


THE  WELSH  GIEL. 


5 


Dav.  You  were  talking  of  a  woman,  you  know. 
Alf.  Well,  well;  don't  favor  me  with  any  remarks  but  those  to 
the  purpose,  Mr.  David  —  what  can  we  do  that  she  won't  object  to? 
She'll  want  to  see  Sir  William,  I  know.  Before  we  left  town,  she 
wished  to  go  to  him,  and  laugh  him  out  of  his  nonsense,  as^he 
calls  it,  but  I  was  afraid  to  let  her.  .  /t 

DaiJ.    He  does  n    know  her;  does  he?  ^ 
Alf    No  —  he  has  never  seen  her.  la|i>W 
Dav,    Humph  !    Well ;  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure  —  she  must  keep 
out  of  his  way  for  a  while  —  but,  if  he  should  happen  to  see  her, 
we  mnst  say  she  is  somebody. 
Alf.    But  who,  David,  who  ? 

Dav.  Why,  if  I  remember  rightly,  old  Dora,  at  the  lodge  here, 
had  a  little  niece,  who  used  to  come  now  and  then  on  a  visit  to  her 
—  she  must  now  be  about  eighteen  years  old  —  she  lived  with  an 
old  grandfather. 

Alf.    I  have  not  seen  her. 

Dav.  Perhaps  she  is  not  here  just  now  —  all  the  better,  or  he 
might  see  one  too  many. 

Alf.  Well,  well;  so  let  it  be  —  that  will  do  famously  —  and  if 
Sir  Owen  should  see  her,  not  having  the  least  idea  of  her  being  my 
wife,  he  will  be  delighted  with  her  —  I  know  he  will  —  she  is  so 
amiable  —  so  graceful  —  so  full  of  vivacity  —  so  pretty —  so  —  in 
sliort,  David,  she  is  a  perfect  pocket  Venus.  We've  only  been 
married  eight  days. 

Dav.    O,  that's  just  about  the  time  I  should  have  guessed. 

Enter  Julia,  running  in  from  hack  entrance. 

Ju.  O,  dear  Alfred  —  what  is  this  I  hear?  Your  uncle.  Sir 
Owen,  expected  here  every  moment  —  is  it  so  ? 

Mf.  It  is,  indeed ;  but  you  need  not  care  —  you  don't  mind  him, 
you  know! 

Ju.    Well,  I  don't  think  I  do  —  much. 

Mf.  However,  I  think  for  the  present  it  will  be  more  prudent 
for  you  not  to  show  yourself —  till  we  see  what  sort  of  a  humor  he 
is  in. 

Ju.    And — and  what's  to  become  of  me,  pray? 

Alf.  {Smiling.)  —  Why,  we  did  think  of  locking  you  up;  but, 
upon  second  thoughts,  we  determined  that  we  would  let  you  have 
your  liberty. 

Dav.  (^0  Alfred.) — I  say  —  you'd  better  let  him  see  her  — 
the  old  boy  likes  to  look  at  a  pretty  woman,  though  he  pretends  not 
to  care  about  them. 

Ju.    Who  is  that  person,  Alfred? 

Alf.  That,  Julia,  is  my  old  friend,  David  Jones,  whom  you  have 
ofter  heard  me  speak  of —  who  used  to  talk  me  to  sleep  with  his 
old  stories  • —  he  knows  my  uncle  well  —  and  advises  that,  to  ward 
ofl^  the  first  effects  of  Sir  Owen's  rage,  it  would  be  better  that  he 
should  not  see  you  just  at  present,  as  my  wife. 


6 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


Ju,    Not  as  your  wife  —  what  then,  pray,  sir? 

Alf,    Now,  now  —  be  quiet,  and  you  shall  hear. 

Dav.  {Aside.)  —  Hot  as  fire,  I  see  —  all  the  better  —  I  hate  youi 
cold-blooded  people. 

Alf,  Old  Dora  has  a  niece  just  about  your  age  —  a  native  of 
North  Wales  

Ju,  {Delighted.)  — O,  I  know;  you  want  me  to  be  the  little 
Welsh  girl  —  I'll  do  it— I  shall  like  it  of  all  things. 


Air,  —  "  Hunting  the  Hare'^ 

Now  look  you,  good  sir;  hur  was  born  at  Llanberris; 

Hur  name  it  is  Taffline  — hur  father's  is  Jones; 
Hur  plays  on  the  harp;  and  hur  pride  and  hur  care  is 

To  sing  all  the  songs  that  hur  dear  country  owns. 
Ap  Rhys,  ap  Llewellyn,  ap  Griffiths,  ap  Madoc, 

Hur  grandfather's  grandfather's  father-in-law 
Was  come  of  the  blood  of  the  famous  Caradoc, 
Who  with  Julius  Caesar  once  played  at  see-saw. 


Ju,  But  what  about  old  Dora?  Will  you  be  able  to  make  her 
understand  what  she  is  to  say  and  do  ? 

Dav,  Leave  that  tome,  Miss  —  Ma'am  —  I  beg  pardon— I'll 
undertake  to  make  her  know  her  right  hand  from  her  left. 

Ju,  And  so  I  am  about  to  see  this  terrible  uncle,  who,  without 
knowing,  hates  me —  me,  who  am  so  well  inclined  to  love  him, 

Dav,  You  don't  seem  to  be  very  much  afraid  of  the  meeting, 
though,  ma'am. 

Ju,  Afraid  —  no ;  why  should  I  ?  I  hear  that  he  is  kind-hearted, 
though  passionate;  gallant,  though  somewhat  ancient  — that  the 
sight  of  a  —  nice  —  pretty  —  little  woman  quite  agitates  him  ;  and, 
in  that  case,  you  know,  he'll  have  the  most  cause  to  be  afraid  ! 

Alf,    Dear  Julia,  you  can't  fail  in  pleasing  him,  I'm  sure. 

Ju,  Yes,  I  think  I  shall  succeed  with  him.  My  father  always 
used  to  say  that  he  was  sure  I  should  accomplish  anything  I  ever 
undertook  —  I  was  such  a  determined  little  devil ! 

Dav,    {Aside.)  —  She's  a  capital  wench. 

Alf,    Your  father! 

Ju,    Yes,  sir,  my  father  —  a  man  of  sound,  excellent  judgment. 
Alf,    You  see,  David  — I  told  you  what  a  little,, wilful,  spoiled 
thing  she  was. 

Ju,  I  should  like  to  know  which  of  us  two  have  proved  them- 
selves the  most  wilful  —  who  married  a  little  girl  without  a  penny, 
when  they  were  particularly  desired  not  to  do  so  }  You  won't  say 
that  was  me,  I  hope?  But  I  had  better  go  now  and  prepare  — 
where  am  I  to  get  the  dress  from,  though? 

Dav,    I'll  go  and  find  old  Dora,  and  send  her  to  you  directly. 

Alf.  There's  the  carriage ;  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  as  it  turned 
the  corner  of  the  road. 


Capital 


!    Brava!  brava! 


THE  WELSH  GIEL. 


7 


Dcuv.    Ihen  I  must  be  quick;  so,  your  servant,  for  the  piesent. 

[^Exit  David. 

Ju.  Good  by,  Alfred;  when  you  see  me  again,  you'll  scarcely 
know  me  yourself —O,  lud  — the  carriage  has  stopped.  —  {Runs  off, 
c.  R.  H.) 

Alf,  I  had  better  go  and  offer  my  arm  to  the  old  gentleman.  — 
{As  he  is  going  off  at  the  hack,  enter  Sir  Owen,  followed  hy  ser- 
vants,) 

Sir  0,  There,  there,  my  good  people  —  that  will  do.  I'm  very 
much  obliged  to  you  —  but,  God  bless  you  —  don't  smother  me.  — 
{Exeunt  servants.)  —  Their  joy  at  seeing  me  is  really  very  trouble- 
some. Well,  nephew,  you  little  thought  of  seeing  me  here,  I 
suppose  ? 

Alf.  It  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  certainly,  sir ;  but  how  have 
you  borne  the  journey?  — without  much  fatigue,  I  hope,  sir. 

Sir  O.  I'm  tired,  sir;  very  tired;  this  plaguy  gout  makes  an 
old  man  of  me. 

Alf.    {Aside.)  —  A  hard  case,  certainly,  at  seventy-five. 

Sir  0.    How  long  have  you  been  here  ? 

Alf    Only  a  few  days,  sir. 

Sir  O.    Humph !  the  old  house  does  not  look  so  badly,  after  all. 
Alf    By  no  means,  sir;  and  the  situation  is  delectable ~ hill 
and  dale  —  rock  and  river — ruins  of  castles  and  sylvan  cottages 

—  0,1  could  live  here  forever  I 

Sir  O.  Very  well,  sir,  very  well;  pray  do.  Since  you  have 
become  so  suddenly  fond  of  solitude,  remain  here,  and  reflect  upon 
your  former  dissolute  and  extravagant  conduct. 

Alf  I  will  reflect  upon  it,  sir,  provided  you  do  not;  but  do 
not  spoil  the  pleasure  of  our  meeting  by  giving  me  a  lecture ;  let's 
forget  and  forgive.  I'll  excuse  all  the  little  annoyances  you  have 
caused  me  — you  do  the  same  by  me,  and  let's  live  happily  and 
comfortably  together  for  the  rest  of  our  lives. 

Sir  0.    This  is  all  very  pretty  ;  but  I'm  not  to  be  joked  or  ban-^ 
tered  out  of  my  opinion,  sir.    Live  happily  and  comfortably  with 
you,  indeed,  sir  —  why,  you  never,  by  any  chance,  do  a  single  thing 
I  wish  you  to  do. 

Alf    O,  sir! 

Sir  0,  Why,  you  puppy,  do  you?  Have  you  given  up  that 
marriage,  sir,  that  I  so  highly  disapprove  ? 

Alf    But,  dear  sir,  you  expect  one  to  do  impossibilities. 

Sir  O.  It's  no  such  thing,  sir;  but  you'll  be  sorry  for  it,  sir: 
you'll  have  cause  to  repent  your  disobedience.  You'll  go  on,  sir, 
until  you  make  me  discard  you  altogether,  and  drive  me  into  get- 
ting a  wife  for  myself. 

Alf    You!  Uncle! 

Sir  0.    Yes,  sir ;  and  why  not,  pray  ? 

Alf    Why,  sir,  I  thought  you  had  too  much  regard  for  your 
own  comfort,  * 

Sir  0.    Comfort,  sir  —  you  are  no  comfort  to  me,  at  all  evente 

—  I  couldn't  be  worse  off  in  that  respect  —  I  want  a  companioii 


g  THE  WELSH  GDIL. 

sir;  you,  you  know,  are  always  too  much  occupied  to  come 
°%!"^bear  sir,  I  must  beg  your  pardon ;  for,  really,  I  think  I  am 
^'l^ra'^KrSf  but  when  you  want  me  to  be  paying  your 

^^Alf.    Well,  sir,  but  you  must  confess  that's  very  often. 

Svr  0.  You'll  find  the  difference  when  I'm  married,  sir  -  I  dare 
sav  at  this  moment  you  are  over  head  and  ears  m  debt.  Well, 
wTuTl  can't  talk  about  that  now -there,  go  along,  sir,  and  send 
the^stewardhere.^^^^  now  you  are  going  to  desire  him  to  give  me 

^Tra'^^L^nTsSh^g'tf^B^^  devil's  David  all 

this  time  ?  _         7    ^  -7 

Enter  David,  hastily. 

Mf.'  Sst^gZont,  aside  to  liKyn,.)-lt  you  ^eIX^IZ 
tunity,  talk  to  him  about  my  wife.  Alfred. 

Sir  0.   Where  have  you  been  to  all  this  time  1- 

Dm.    I  have  been  trying  to  make  all  things  comfortable  for  you 
to  be  ^ure;  but  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  manage  it 
or  not;  but  it  ain't  my  fault,  you  know  -  you  would  come  all  on  a 
sudden,  in  this  queer  way  -  I'm  glad  Alfred's  here,  though  -  you  11 

have  somebody  to  speak  to.  ^„^^\f  thnncrh  he 

Sir  O.    Well,  David,  I'm  not  sorry  for  that  myself,  though  he 

does  provoke  me;  but,  David,  tell  me -who  was  that  girl  I  sa« 

bounding  over  the  hall  just  now,  as  I  came  in  / 

Bm.      didn't  see  any  girl  on  the  hall;  but  PerhaPS  it  was  old 

Dora's  niece  —  she  comes  here  sometimes  on  a  visit  to  her  aunt- 

^'X^'0.'^'rr)-By  tlie  by,  that  old  woman  is  a  very  good 
servant,  and  ought  not  to  he  forgotten;  it's  too  often  the  case,  1 
?ear,  th^t  servants  who  have  been  for  years  in  the  family  a«  rn^^fly 
looked  upon  as  some  of  the  old  fixtures,  and  treated  accordingly, 
but  this  must  not  be  -  something  must  be  done  for  her. 

Dav.    Because  she  happens  to  have  a  pretty  niece,  I  suppose  • 
Sir  0.    What  an  old  fool  you  are !    What's  her  niece  to  me  ?  - 
and  I  don't  know  whether  she  is  PreMy  or  not  for  I  didn  t  see  her 
face -there  was  a  time,  indeed,  when  I  might  have  been  a  httle 

curious  about  such  matters ;  but  now  

Dav.  Yes;  there  was  a  time,  indeed,  when  you  were  a  v^^- 
cions- {putting  his  hand  over  his  mouth)-!  was  going  to 
say  

Sir  0,    What,  sir  — what?  i  t 

Bav.     Well,  a  bad-un,  then;  but,  I  didn't,  you  know  -  I 

^'^^iv"or"  Ha,  ha!  David  -  that  was  when  I  was  a  fine  young 
man  of  five  and  twenty. 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


9 


Dav,  Yes,  I  know ;  and  for  that  reason  you  might,  I  think,  be  a 
trifle  more  indulgent  to  that  fine  young  man  of  five  and  twenty. 

Sir  0.  Not  at  all  —  not  at  all ;  I  can't  look  upon  it  in  the  same 
light. 

Dav,  {Aside.')  —  No ;  because  now  you  are  obliged  to  look 
upon  it  through  your  spectacles. 

Sir  0.    What  are  you  muttering  about  ? 

Dav.  Nothing;  nothing;  but  it's  rather  hard  upon  the  poor 
boy,  I  think. 

Sir  0.  Now,  David,  don't  talk  nonsense.  Can  anything  be 
more  stupid  or  ridiculous,  for  instance,  than  that  love  affair  of  his  ? 

Dav.  Yes,  a  great  many  things;  but  you'll  alter  your  mind 
about  that  —  I  know  you  will. 

Sir  O,  Never,  David,  never — upon  that  point  I  am  determined 
—  I  am  as  immovable  as  Harlech  Castle.  Let  him  marry  the 
young  lady  I  propose  to  him,  and  I'll  forgive  him  everything;  but 
if  he  marries  that  girl,  I've  done  with  him  —  I've  done  with  him 
forever. 

Dav,  Now,  Sir  Owen,  suppose  he  does  marry  her;  it  will  be  a 
shocking  crime,  certainly,  for  the  young  man  to  marry  the  girl  he 
loves.  I  suppose  you  would  have  him  abandon  the  poor  thing  after 
gaining  her  affections,  and  would  give  him  an  extra  five  thousand 
pounds  to  become  a  villain. 

Sir  0.    David,  you  forget  yourself! 

Dav.    No,  sir ;  /  don't  forget  myself. 

Sir  0.  {Agitated,  hut  angry.)  —  Humph !  —  if  he  marries  that 
girl,  I'll  disinherit  him. 

Dav.    You  will?    And  what'll  you  do  with  your  money? 

Sir  0.    Leave  it  to  charities  —  to  my  servants  —  to  

Dav.  Don't  leave  any  to  me  ;  for  d —  me  if  I'll  have  it.  What  J 
disinherit  your  own  nephew  I  your  poor  dear  sister's  only  child !  — 
and  for  what?  —  for  follies  which  he  inherits  from  his  uncle. 

Sir  0.  {Rises.)  —  How  do  you  presume  to  talk  to  me  in  this 
manner?  Now,  David,  don't  argue  the  point  with  me  any  more — 
you'll  put  me  in  a  passion,  stir  up  the  bile,  and  give  me  a  fit  of  the 
gout.  —  {Throws  himself  on  the  sofa.) 

Dav.  It  drives  me  mad,  Sir  Owen,  to  see  you  insist  on  making 
miseries  for  yourself. 

Sir  0.    What  do  you  mean,  sir? 

Dav.  Why,  if  you  deprive  that  boy  of  the  means  of  living,  won't 
he  be  miserable?  and  if  he  is  miserable,  won't  you  be  miserable? 
and  if  you're  miserable,  shan't  I  be  miserable?  and  then  a  pretty 
life  you'll  have  of  it !  —  I'll  answer  for  your  being  uncomfortable 
enough. 

Sir  0.  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  sir  }  Be  silent,  or  leave  the 
room.    I  will  not  be  dictated  to  by  my  footman. 

Dav.  {After  a  moments  pause  of  astonishment.)  —  Footman  ! 
Did  I  hear  right?  Was  it  footman  he  said?  After  all  these  years 
of  service  in  war  and  peace,  to  be  degraded,  and  called  footman ! 
And  by  you,  Sir  Owen  —  it's  more  than  I  can  bear.    When  I  faced 


10 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


death  by  your  side  —  shipmate  was  the  word  then,  sir  —  not  foot^ 
man  1 

Sir  0.    (Much  agitated  —  aside,) —Voor  fellow!  poor  fellow 
I've  hurt  his  feelings.  —  (Aloud.)  —  David ! 

Dav.  I  can  ~  I  have  borne  with  your  whims  —  wiih  your  pas- 
sion —  but  the  old  sailor  cannot,  will  not,  put  up  with  a  degrada- 
tion. 

Sir  0.    But,  David  —  what  •—  a  tear ! 

Bav,  (Bashing  it  off,)— It  is  rage.  If  you  hadn't  been  my 
commander,  I  would  —  you  should  — — 

Sir  0.  (Holding  out  his  hand.)  —  Come,  come,  forget  it,  and 
give  me  your  hand. 

Bav.    (Turning  away.)  —  Humph ! 

Sir  0.  (Getting  up.)  —  How's  this ?  You  refuse  to  forgive  the 
impetuosity  of  an  old  friend  ? 

Bav.  (Suddenly  turnSy  and  takes  Sir  O.'s  hand.)  —  O,  Sir 
Owen !  Sir  Owen ! 

Sir  0.  There,  now,  promise  me  to  forget  what  has  passed.  I 
was  wrong  —  very  wrong. 

Bav.    Sir  Owen,  it  was  my  fault. 

Sir  O.    No,  no  —  I  was  to  blame. 

Bav.    1  tell  you  it  was  me. 

Sir  0,  Why,  David  —  you  are  never  going  to  begin  again,  are 
you?  Well,  well  —  let  me  advise  you  now  don't  talk  to  me  any 
more  about  my  nephew  —  you  see  the  consequence.  Come,  prom- 
ise me  that  —  won't  you  ? 

Bav.    As  you  please.  Sir  Owen. 

Sir  0.  Although  we've  had  a  breeze,  it  has  not  been  a  very 
grateful  one.  I'll  even  try  the  more  genial  air  of  heaven  for  a 
while.  —  (David  offers  his  arm.)  —  No,  thank  you,  David  —  old 
friend !  —  comrade !    I  can  go  alone.  \_Exit. 

Bav.  (Looking  after  Sir  Owen.)  —  He's  a  good-hearted  old 
chap,  after  all,  though ;  but  he's  got  a  precious  lot  of  obstinacy  in 
his  composition. 

Ju.  (Peeping  in,  dressed  as  a  Welsh  peasant,  speaking  very 
low.)  —  David !  David ! 

Bav.    O,  you  may  come  in,  miss !    Sir  Owen's  not  here. 

Enter  Julia,  followed  by  Dora. 

Ju.    Well,  David,  have  you  said  anything  to  Sir  Owen?  How 
does  he  seem  disposed? 
Bav.    He's  indisposed ! 
Ju.  Indisposed? 

Bav.  To  hear  anything  about  you— I  mean,  miss.  We  very 
nearly  quarrelled,  and  I  have  been  obliged  to  promise  I  won't  men- 
tion Mr.  Alfred's  name  to  him  any  more ;  so  I  must  leave  you  to 
fight  your  own  battle. 

Ju.  And  so  I  will,  Uke  a  good  soldier !  and  if  my  attack  doea 
not  make  him  surrender  some  of  his  prejudice  against  m.e,  m^ 
name  isn't  Julia. 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


11 


Dav,    I  hope  it  will,  from  my  heart. 

Ju,  It  must  —  it  shall !  I  have  always  had  my  own  way,  and  I 
always  will  —  if  I  can  get  it. 

Dav,    Now,  old  woman,  you  are  sure  you  know  your  business  ? 

Do.  O.  yes  —  pless  you !  I  am  not  once,  by  any  chance,  to 
Speak  the  truth  —  look  you  —  that's  it. 

Dav,  Humph  !  that  won't  be  very  difficult,  I  dare  say.  Hush  ! 
—  here  comes  Sir  Owen ;  so  I'll  be  off,  Miss.  \_Exit,  l.  h. 

Ju,    He  will  call  me  Miss. 

Do,    Here  he  is,  ma'am.    Are  you  not  frightened? 
Ju,    No  —  o,  Dora;  are  you? 

Do,  Why,  I  am  a  little,  ma'am  —  Sir  Owen  is  so  very  passion- 
ate —  look  you.  —  {They  stand  aside.) 

Enter  Sir  Owen,  not  observing  themj  and  seats  himself  on  the  sofa. 

Sir  0,  So  —  I'm  better  now.  What  a  rage  Davy  put  himself 
into  —  faith,  I  don't  much  wonder  at  it ;  but  then  he  provoked  me 
so  about  that  puppy  of  a  nephe  w  of  mine,  —  he's  a  good-hearted 
old  fellow,  though,  after  all,  and  would,  I  believe,  go  to  the  devil 
to  serve  me.  —  {During  this ^  Julia  has  been  pushing  Doua.  for- 
ward, who  appears  afraid  to  advance,) 

Ju,  {Aside  to  Dora.)  —  There  —  go  :  he  really  does  not  look 
half  such  a  Turk  as  I  took  him  for. 

Do,  {To  Sir  O.)  — I  peg  pardon.  Sir  Owen  —  perhaps  I  disturb 
you. 

Sir  0,    No,  no,  my  good  woman.    What  is  it?  —  what  is  it? 

Do,  I  come,  Sir  Owen,  to  pay  my  respects  to  you;  and  I've 
brought  my  little  niece,  look  you,  to  make  her  courtesy,  and  thank 
you  for  your  kindness  to  her  old  aunt ;  for  although  we  have  not 
seen  your  honor,  Cot  pless  you,  for  some  years,  my  heart !  we  all 
had  reason  to  feel  we  were  not  forgotten  by  you. 

Sir  0.  And  so  that's  your  niece,  Dora? — a  nice,  tidy-looking 
lass,  indeed. 

Do.  O,  yes.  Sir  Owen,  she's  very  tidy  —  but  you  are  busy,  sir. 
We'd  better  go,  my  love.  —  {To  Julia.) 

Sir  0.  No,  no ;  stay  a  minute,  —  {To  Julia.)  —  Come,  child.  — 
{He  beckons  her  forward  ;  she  keeps  retreating.)  —  Is  that  your 
way  of  coming  forward^  my  dear?  You  must  teach  her  better 
than  that.  Dame,  or  she'll  never  get  on  in  the  world. 

Do.  Yes,  Sir  Owen ;  but  she  has  not  long  been  with  me,  pless 
you. —  {Aside.)  —  O,  I  shouldn't  have  said  that,  I  suppose  —  it  is 
the  truth.  —  {To  Julia.)  —  Come,  Taffline  —  come  and  speak  to  Sir 
Owen.  —  {She  takes  her  hand,  and  leads  her  forward  ;  Sir  Owek 
qazes  at  her  for  some  time.) 

Sir  0.    There's  not  much  family  likeness,  Dame. 

Do,  La!  don't  you  think  so.  Sir  Owenl  She's  always  been 
thought  the  very  model  of  me,  look  you.  —  {Aside.)  —  That  will  be 
sure  to  be  right. 

Sir  0,    {Getting  up,  and  patting  Julia  on  the  cheek,)  —  Well, 


12 


THE  WELSH  GIEL, 


well;  she's  a  nice,  quiet,  good-humored,  modest-looking  girl.— 
(Julia  courtesies  to  each  of  these  epithets,  —  To  Dora.)  —  Has  my 
nephew  seen  her ?  .  Aii»  j» 

Do.  O,  dear,  no,  Sir  Owen  —  I  have  kept  her  out  of  Mr.  Alfred  s 
sight  — I  should  not  have  brought  her  to  the  castle  if  you  had  not 
been  here.  A  young  girl  of  that  age.  Sir  Owen,  is  —  a  young  girl, 
look  you. 

Sir  0.  Decidedly. 

Do.  And  they  are  shocking  people  for  talkmg  scandal  m  oui 
villsge. 

Sir  0.    And  in  what  village  are  they  not,  I  should  like  to  know? 

Do.  Ah,  I  dare  say,  Sir  Owen,  they  are  all  alike.  —  (To  Julia.) 
What  have  you  done  with  your  tongue,  Taffline  ?  —  why  don't  you 
speak  to  his  honor  ? 

Ju.  (  With  the  Welsh  accent.)  —  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  him, 
look  you. 

Sir  0.    Tell  me  how  old  you  are. 

Ju,    (Courtesy ing.)  —  Jnst  eighteen,  Sir  Owen. 

Do.  Ay,  I  remember  it  very  well  —  she  was  born  the  mornmg 
after  the  great  storm.  —  (Aside.) —'Lord  help  me,  I  hope  there 
mayn't  be  another  after  that.  —  (Aloud)  —  Now,  then,  my  dear, 
make  a  courtesy  to  Sir  Owen,  and  come  with  me,  for  I  have  many 
tilings  to  do  this  morning,  and  must  be  bustling. 

Sir  0.  Stay  a  moment  \  —  (Aside.) —I  must  find  out  it  that 
puppy  has  seen  the  girl.  —  (Aloud.)  —  Dora,  do  you  go  about  your 
household  affairs,  and  leave  your  niece  with  me  a  httle,  as  I  am  all 
alone.    She  will  amuse  me. 

Do.  La !  Sir  Owen,  I  fear  she  will  not  be  much  of  a  companion, 
look  you ;  she  will  not  speak  a  word,  hardly,  you  see,  sir ! 

Sir  0.  O,  never  fear!  I'll  make  her  speak;  she'll  tell  me  all 
her  little  secrets,  I'm  sure.    Perhaps  I  can  serve  her  in  some  way. 

Do.  You  are  so  good,  Sir  Owen!  —  (To  Julia.)  —  There,  don  t 
be  shy  —  and  talk  to  his  honor  like  a  good  little  woman,  look  you. 

\_Exit,  R.  H. 

Sir  0.    Now,  child,  come  here,  and  let  us  have  a  little  bit  of 
quiet  chat  —  come,  come  ! 
Ju.    I  daren't. 

Sir  0,    Why  not  — are  you  afraid  of  me? 

Ju.    Yes  —  if  you  please,  sir  —  a  little,  look  you. 

Sir  0.  But  I  don't  please  that  you  should  be  afraid  of  me  —  1 
wish  to  be  a  friend  to  you  —  so  come  nearer.  i ^  n 

Ju.    But  I  don't  like  to  move  in  this  place,  for  fear  I  should  tall. 

Sir  0.  For  fear  you  should  fall  —  why,  child  ?  Why  should  you 
fall  here  ? 

Ju.  I*  don't  know.  But  when  I  left  my  native  village  they  told 
me  that  a  young  girl  like  me  should  be  very  careful,  particularly  it 
I  went  into  great  houses,  and  saw  great  people ;  for  if  I  made  one 
false  step,  and  had  a  fall,  I  should  never  rise  again,  look  you. 

Sir  0.  (Smiling.)  —  Ay,  ay,  and  for  that  very  reason  you  will 
need  a  guide  —  a  friend.  —  (Gets  up,  and  leads  her  to  the  f rout  oj 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


13 


the  stage,)  —  There ;  so  far  you  are  safe  —  now  sit  down.  —  (^She  sits 
timidly  down  by  Sm  Owen.)  —  Now,  tell  me  —  ain't  you  very  dull 
here,  with  no  company  but  your  old  aunt? 

Ju.    :^ol  ,     ,  ^ 

Sir  0.  No  I  You  surprise  me;  for  I  dare  say  youve  lett  a 
sweetheart,  now,  behind  you  in  your  own  little  village. 

Ju.  O,  dear,  no  !  —  O,  dear,  no  !  —  pless  you  —  I  have  no  sweet- 
heart ;  but  if  ever  I  should  have  one,  I  should  love  him  for  one 
reason  only,  look  you. 

Sir  0.    Indeed !  and  what  may  that  be  ? 

Ju.    The  old  one  that  is  given  in  the  song,  look  you. 

Sir  0.  {Mimicking.)  —  "  In  the  song,  look  you  "  —  well,  then, 
sing  me  the  song,  look  you. 

—  Julia.    (  Welsh.)  —    Allurement  of  love.'* 

It  is  not  for  his  gold,  sir,  nor  for  he's  young  and  bold,  sir  — 

Nor  for  his  looks  —  though  handsome  as  a  morn  of  spring  is  he; 

I've  but  one  rule  for  loving,  sir,  but  that's  the  best  can  be  — 

I  love  my  love  because  I  know  my  love  loves  me. 

For  youth  it  will  not  last,  sir,  and  beauty  fadeth  fast,  sir, 

And  riches,  in  a  moment,  may  at  fortune's  bidding  flee  ; 

But  honest  hearts  no  change  can  know;  and  so,  good  sir,  d'ye  see— 

I  love  my  love  because  I  know  my  love  loves  me  ? 

Sir  0.  (Delighted.)  —  ThsiVs  the  sort  of  singing  I  like  now, 
when  you  don't  lose  the  melody  in  a  wilderness  of  tra;shy  ornament 

—  all  pure,  pure  —  that's  the  voice  to  soothe  one  to  sleep,  and  make 
one  forget  one's  trouble  —  ay,  even  the  gout. 

Ju.    (Aside.)  —  Ha,  ha  !  —  Mr.  Sir ! 

Sir  O.  (Aside.)  —  Upon  my  life,  she's  charming !—  (David  ap- 
pears at  the  back,  watching  the  progress.) 

Ju.    (^0  David.)  — Caught!    I  declare  it  will  do  I 
Sir  0.    What,  child!     What  did  you  say?    Who's  caught  — 
what's  caught? 

Ju.    A  —  a  —  fly,  look  you !  —  (Showing  her  closed  hand.) 

Sir  0.    Well,  well,  let  it  go,  and  listen  to  me.    I  am  interested 

—  strangely  interested  —  about  you,  and  am  anxious  that  you  should 
do  well.  You  may  have  many  lovers  —  all  silly,  giddy,  young  men  ; 
but  that  won't  do.    That  is  not  the  proper  sort  of  husband  for  you 

—  you  will  need  a  friend,  a  counsellor,  a  middle-aged  man— one 
who  knows  how  to  guide  you  and  govern  himself. 

Ju.    I  should  not  like  an  old  man,  look  you. 

Sir  0.  An  old  man!— no,  no,  child  — not  an  old  man,  cer- 
tainly—but a  man,  for  instance,  about  my  age. 

Ju.  (Astonished.)  —  Your  age  !  —  (Recovering  herself.)  —  O, 
yes,  yes ;  but  where  shall  I  ever  find  such  another  as  you,  Sir 
Owen  —  Cot  pless  you? 

Sir  0.  (Delighted.)  —DesiT  child!  dear  child  I  — (Astde.) — 
Now,  that  came  direct  from  the  heart— an  ebullition  of  nature  — 
no  trick,  no  deceit  about  that.  —  (To  Julia,  taking  her  hand.)  —  You 
are  not  afraid  of  me  now,  then,  Taffline  ? 


14 


THE  WELSH  GmL. 


Ju.  0,  no,  no,  no !  I  feel  as  intimate  with  you  now  as  I  do  with 
my  Billy. 

Sir  0.    And  who  may  your  Billy  be  ? 

Ju.  O,  my  pretty  goat,  look  you  —  and  I  do  not  wish  to  go 
away  and  leave  you,  as  I  did  just  now. 

Sir  0.  Bless  your  little  single,  simple  heart,  you  shan't  1^-ave 
nie  —  I  won't  leave  you.  I'll  pack  off  ray  nephew,  and  stay  here 
for  the  remainder  of  my  life. 

Ju,  (Archly.)  —  Ah,  ah  !  I  know  something  about  your  nephew, 
look  you  —  I  could  tell  if  I  liked. 

Sir  0.  About  my  nephew,  child.  —  {Aside,)  —  I  thought  so. 
What  can  you  possibly  know  about  my  nephew  ?  —  I  thought  he  had 
never  seen  you  —  old  Dora  has  deceived  me,  then  —  he /las  seen 
you,  and,  of  course,  been  making  love  to  you? 

Dav,    {Aside,)  —  Now  for  it. 

Ju,    No,  no  ;  it  is  not  that,  pless  you. 

Sir  O,    What  is  it,  then,  child? 

Ju,    It  is  a  great  secret,  look  you.    Can  you  keep  a  secret? 
Sir  0.    I'll  keep  anything  you'll  trust  me  with. 
Ju,    Well,  then  ;  but  you  must  promise  me  you  will  not  be  angry, 
look  you. 

Sir  0,    Well,  well,  child  —  what  is  it? 

Ju,    {Holding  her  finger  at  him  playfully.)  —  Promise,  then. 
Sir  0,    I  promise  —  I  promise. 

Ju,  {Confidentially.)  —  I  overheard  Mr.  Alfred,  the  other  night, 
telhng  aunt  Dora  all  about  his  marriage  with  the  lady  he  loved  so 
much  —  Cot  pless  her. 

Sir  0,    His  marriage  !    Why,  he  has  never  dared  

Ju.    Hush!  hush!  hush! 

Sir  0.  Married,  indeed!  — a  graceless  young  puppy— I'll  go 
and  kick  him  out  of  the  house  instantly. 

Ju,  My  heart,  my  heart,  sir  !  —  is  this  the  way  you  keep  your 
promise?    You  are  not  a  man  of  your  word,  look  you. 

Sir  0,    But  I  am  in  a  rage,  chUd  —  in  a  thundering  passion  ! 

Ju,  Yes,  yes ;  so  I  see  —  but  you  must  come  out  of  it  in  a  flash 
of  lightning,  or  I  shall  go  in  a  great  rage  myself,  and  you  will  re- 
pent it;  for  then  I  am  terrible  —  I  am  terrible. 

Sir  0.  But  I'm  not  angry  with  you,  child  — you  are  a  good, 
dear  little  girl,  and  I'm  really  very  fond  oi  yon.  —  {Talcing  her 
hand.)  —  But  that  nephew  of  mine  —  he'll  drive  me  mad  —  to  dare 
Ko  disobey  me,  on  that  particular  point,  too ;  but  I  will  make  him 
repent  it.  —  {LooJcs  at  Julia,  and  pauses,)  —  I've  a  great  mind  — 
I've  often  threatened  it  —  he  hasn't  believed  me  — I'll  doit  —  I  wi^l* 
l>y  Jove.  c  r\ 

Ju,    Name  of  goodness  !  —  what  will  you  do.  Sir  Owen  f 

Sir  0,  I'll  be  married  myself  —  and  to  you,  my  pretty  Taffline  — 
you  shall  be  my  lady.  ,     ,     u  i 

Bav.    {Aside.)  —  1  thought  it  would  come  to  this  —  ha,  ha,  ha  I 

Ju.  To  me  !  Fou  marry  me  ^  —  {Aside.)  —  Well,  this  is  a  good 
joke,  indeed  I  —  (Rises,) 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


15 


Sir  0,  (Mtses,) — Yes,  child  — jes;  we  were  made  for  each 
other  —  I'm  sure  of  it  —  I  feel  it.  Then  my  revenge  upon  Alfred 
will  be  sweet  indeed,  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  When  he  finds 
you  are  going  to  be  his  aunt,  how  astonished  the  fellow  will  be  — 
ha,  ha,  ha! 

Ju.    He  will,  indeed  —  he'll  never  believe  it,  pless  you. 

Sir  0,    I  dare  say  not;  but  he'll  find  it  true,  and  to  his  cost. 

Ju.  Don't  you  be  too  sure  —  you  will  alter  your  mind  by  and  by, 
I  think,  look  you. 

Sir  0,  Never,  child,  never !  I  am  my  own  master,  and  have  a 
right  to  do  what  I  like  with  myself. 

Ju.    But  what  will  people  think? 

Sir  0.  It  signifies  little  to  me  what  they  thinh,  provided  they 
don't  say  what  they  think ;  besides,  I'll  give  up  people,  the  world, 
and  stay  here  alone  with  you  —  you,  precious  drop  of  mountain 
dew! 

Ju.  And  are  you  sure  you  shall  not  repent.  Sir  Owen  ?  for  I've 
heard  people  say  — 

Air —    Poor  Mary  Anne.'^ 

Lock'd  for  life  in  Hymen's  fetter, 

Poor  married  man ! 
With  a  half  he  calls  "  his  better  "  — 

Poor  married  man  ! 

All  the  joys  his  fancy  nurst,  sir, 
Scarcely  blown  before  they  burst,  sir, 
Ho  finds  his  better  half  his  worst ,  sir  — 
Poor  married  man ! 

Sir  O.  Bless  your,  pretty  warbling  throat  —  there's  no  fear  of 
that  with  you. 

Ju.  My  heart,  my  heart  I  —  (^Laughing.)  —  What  a  funny  thing 
love  is.  Cot  pless  us  !  if  anybody  had  told  you  yesterday  you  were 
going  to  be  married,  and  to  a  poor  little  Welsh  girl,  you  wouid  not 
have  believed  them,  look  you. 

Sir  0.  Yesterday,  child!  —  no!  nor  an  hour  ago;  but  1  must 
see  about  getting  rid  of  Mr.  Alfred,  though.  —  (David  disap- 
pears.^ 

Ju.  Pray  don't  you  go  yet  —  I  want  to  ask  you  a  little  question  : 
Has  your  nephew  loved  the  lady  that  he  has  married  a  long  time? 
—  Cojb  pless  her ! 

Sir  0.    0,  his  head  has  been  turned  about  her  these  two  years ! 

Ju.  Ah,  indeed!  — I  have  heard  him  say  sho  was  very  good  and 
very  clever,  and  two  or  three  other  pretty  thing ,  about  her,  Cot 
pless  her. 

Sir  0.  What's  that  to  me,  or  to  you  either,  child?  —  the  girl's  a 
beggar  —  she  hasn't  a  shilling  in  the  world  —  but  what's  the  matter, 
child  ?    What  are  you  thinking  about  ? 

Ju.  That  I  am  as  bad  as  she  is,  then  —  a  beggar  !  for  /have  no< 
a  silling  in  the  world. 


£g  THE  WELSH  GIEL. 


Sir  0.  That's  nothing  to  the  purpose— and  /  have  come  to 
year-i  of  discretion,  am  dependent  upon  no  one,  and  have  a  right 
to      as  I  like.  ^_  . 

/i/  Ah,  I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean.  Your  nephew, 
lo'  ;L  you,  does  wrong  to  marry  a  lady  of  his  own  rank,  and  about 
his  own  age,  and  one  he  has  loved  for  some  time  —  Cot  pless  her  ! 
—  hat  you  do  quite  right  when  you  propose  to  marry  a  poor,  un- 
known, untaught,  little  Welsh  girl,  young  enough  to  be  your  grand- 

chilu  —  look  you.  7    ^  ^7    z.    7  \ 

Dav.  {Aside,  who,  during  this,  has  appeared  at  the  back.)  — 
She  had  you  there,  old  boy.  .   i  , 

Sir  0  Humph !  —  {Aside.)  —  There's  common  sense  m  her  ob- 
servation, certainly.  -  {Aloud.)  —But,  child,  everything,  you  know, 
depends  so  much  upon  circumstances.  t  i.-  i 

Jm.    Very  true ;  and  so  will  my  marriage  with  you,  1  think. 

Sir  0.    How  do  you  mean  ? 

Ju,    Why  —  don't  you  know  that  Mr.  Alfred  owes  some  money  i 

Sir  0,  {Aside.)  —  A^irQdi  again  —  what  does  this  mean.? — 
{Aloud.)  — Yq^,  child,  I  do  know  it  —  and  he  is  likely  to  owe  it  — 
for  I  will  never  pay  another  farthing  for  him. 

Ju.    Yes  —  I  think  you  will  —  Cot  pless  you ! 

Sir  O.  Never,  child,  never ;  and  I  am  sure  you  are  too  reason- 
able to  expect  it.  j  t    -n     ^  u 

Ju  But  I  am  not  reasonable  —  look  you  — and  I  will  not  be 
reasonable  — and  I  will  not  marry  you— or  have  anything  to  say 
to  you  —  if  you  do  not  pay  his  debts  —  that  I  will  not.  1  will  not 
be  made  a  lady  — and  have  a  fine  house  and  fine  clothes  —  while 
your  own  nephew  is  turned  out  without  a  silhng  —  my  heart  —  my 
heart !  it  would  be  sad,  indeed  

Sir  0.  Good  girl !  good  girl  —  {Aside.)  —  She's  as  good  as  she  s 
pretty  —  those  feelings  ought  to  be,  and  shall  be,  appreciated.  — 

{Aloud.)  —  I  will  do  as  you  wish,  my  little  dear  —  but  remember 
—  I  do  it  for  your  sake  only.  -r  .1  •  i  ^ 

Ju,  Cot  pless  you  —  thank  you  —  and  —  and  —  I  think,  for  my 
sake,  you  will  consent  to  see  your  little  niece  — — 

Sir  0.     See  her  — no  — 0,  no  —  don't  mention  her,  I  beg, 

^^jt  But  I  must  mention  her— I  will  mention  her  —  Cot  pless 
her  !    I  will  talk  of  nothing  else,  look  you,  till  you  consent  to  see 

^^^Sir  0.    But,  child  —  child  — it's  not  possible  I  can  do  so  —  only 

"jurTstamping  her  feet.) -1  never  think  -  I  never  think -I 
never  think.  —  (Sm  O.  is  about  to  speak;  she  stops  him.)  —  i^ou 
shall  not  speak  —  you  shall  never  speak  again  —  unless  it  is  to^say 

Yes  "  when  I  ask  you  to  see  your  niece.  Will  you  say  Yes  to 
that?  —  (Sir  O.  walks  about  angrily  ;  she  follows  him,  constantly 
saying,  Will  you  say  Yes  ?  "  David  exjoresses  great  delight,  but 
disappears  as  they  walk  about  the  stage.) 

Sir  0.    By  Jove,  the  girl  is  certainly  mad  —  well,  well,  be  quiet, 


THE  WELSH  GIRL.  17 


cMd,  and  I'll  think  about  it  — we  shall  see  — we  shall  see  — 
(^Throws  himself  on  sofa,  quite  overcome.) 

Ju.    {Goes  softly  to  the  hack  of  sofa,  and  says  coaxingly  to  him) 
—  Will  you  say  "  Yes,"  dear  Sir  Owen  ?  if  :f  J 

Air,  —    Mountain  Fairy,** 

List  to  me,  I  pray  now  do,  sir, 
List  as  Taffline  would  to  you,  sir; 
Must  she  thus  unheeded,  sue  sir? 
Do  as  you'd  be  done  by  — do,  sir ! 
Look  you,  hur  will  love  you  ever, 
If  to  pardon  you'll  endeavor 
Those  whom  it  would  kill  to  sever; 

Do  — sir  —  do! 
bee,  her  cheeks  with  tears  are  streaming !  — . 
"Was  your  kindness  only  seeming  ? 
Was  she  wrong,  alas !  in  deeming 
She  was  ever  dear  to  you  ?  — 
Think  how  Taffline's  breast  would  smart,  now, 
If  from  you  compelled  to  part,  now  ! 
Won't  you,  then,  say,  "  Yes,"  dear  heart,  now  ! 

Do  —  sir — do!  

SirO,  {Delighted,  Msses  her,)— Bless  you,  child!  bless  you  I 
—  It  IS  quite  impossible  to  refuse  you  anything  — if  you  were  to 
ask  me  to  dance  a  hornpipe,  or  cut  mv  throat,  it  would  be  all  the 
same  — I  should  do  it.    I  consent  — I  do  say  ''Yes." 

Ju,  {Aside  to  Alfred  and  David,  who  appear  at  hach.) — 
Victory!  yicioxy  \  —  {Runs  round  the  sofa,  and  throws  herself  on 
both  knees  before  Sir  Owen.)— Now  you  are  a  dear  — good- 
sweet  —  kind  —  charming  old  man. 

Alf    I  beg  pardon,  sir ;  perhaps  I  disturb  your  t^te-a-t^te. 

Sir  0.    Perhaps  you  do,  sir. 

Alf    In  that  case  I'll  retire  

Sir  0.  No,  sir;  since  you  are  here,  stay;  I  have  something  to 
communicate  to  you.  In  the  first  place,  sir,  make  your  bow  to  this 
young  lady,  and  treat  her  with  the  greatest  respect,  sir. 

Alf    Respect,  sir  !  —  you  are  joking. 

Sir  0,  You'll  have  no  cause  to  think  it  a  joke,  sir,  for  —  for  — 
wifeT       ^"^^^"^  ®^^'  ^        goii^g  to  make  this-  lady  my 

Alf,    {Bursting  into  a  fit  of  laughter.)  —  Your  wife,  sir ! 
Sir  0.    Impudent  puppy ! 

Alf.  {To  Sir  Owen.)  — But,  my  dear  sir,  are  you  really  in 
earnest    Why,  you  haven't  known  the  young  lady  an  hour ! 

Sir  0.  What's  that  to  you,  sir  — what's  that  to  you?  I  have 
known  her  long  enough  to  find  out  that  her  heart  is  in  the  right 
place,  sir,  and  that  she  will  do  honor  to  the  ancient  name  of  Grif- 
fiths. 

Alf    I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  sir ! 

Sir  0.    Very  well,  sir;  then  make  your  bow  to  your  future 
aunt ! 

Alf,    Certainly,  sir.  —  {Advancing  to  Julia  with  mock  gravity, 
2 


THE  WELSH  GIEL. 

««^iom»i<7^ -Madam,  may  I  presume  to  hope  that  a  hitherto 
^Ih  eTs  fnLidual  may  find  favor  in  ^-^^^t  -  thatjou  ,aU 
deign  totalse  him  under  your  specia  P'-of ,f  'l^rS 
which  is  the  right  and  proper  restmg-place  for  his  heart.  -  {.lakes 
Julia's  hand,  and  hisses  it.) 

<?iV  O    That  will  do,  sir  —  that  will  do,  I  tell  you  I 

i!f.  Sir  I  am  anxious  to  show  you  a  specimen  of  the  r«i.e<^ 
with  which  1  intend  to  treat  my  future  aunt !       ,  „  t 

SirO    Very  well,  sir ;  but  that's  quite  enough  for  the  present ! 

fu.  Look  you.  Sir  Owen;  don't  you  think  I  had  better  go  to  my 
a„nt^  —  she  will  want  me,  may  be.  •  ui. 

%r  0  The  impertinent  assurance  of  that  scapegrace  has  fright- 
ened her  Yes,  child,  go  to  your  aunt  now;  but  don't  stay  away 
long  I  shall  be  ve^/duU  w^ithout  you.  -(Takes  her  hand,  and 
Ssit;  leads  her  out  at  back  entrance;  returns  humming,  and 

1  thought  he  was  humming  the  "  Conquering 
He1o{"  -ie  looks  it  and  feels  it,  I'm  sure.  -{To  Sik  Owen.)  - 
Anrl  so  sir,  vou  are  really  going  to  be  married  ? 

tir  d.  Yes  sir,  I  am ;  and  I  don't  think  it  possible  to  have  made 
a  better  choice -  such  spirit,  blended  with  such  softness  -  such 
erace  Yes  sir,  grace -  I  repeat  it,  and  without  atfectation;  but 
K'rowning  chfrm  in  .my  eyes,  sir,  is  the  good,  sound  common 
sense  which  she  possesses.  „    ,    ,      .  ,    v„^a  i  he's 

V  (Aside.) -now  the  old  fire's  '^'^^'-ng  "P '  f  ^ad !  hf' 
mwe  serious  about  it  than  I  thought  for !- -  Really, 
Sr  I  see  nothing  in  her  to  captivate  a  man  of  taste  -  a  common- 
place, awkward'  country  girl^  and,  spite  of  ^er  appearance  of  in- 
nocence, I'll  engage  she  has  made  use  of  some  art  by  which  she  bas 
wheedled  herself  into  your  good  graces.  lihellous 
Sir  0.  It's  no  such  thing,  sir  -  she's  an  angel  -  you,  a  libellous 
puppy,  and  don't  deserve  the  kind  consideration  she  has  bestowed 

"%?'°Upon  me,  sir      what  can  she  possibly  know  or  care  about 


me 


W  O  She  knows  more  about  your  afi-airs  than  you  think  for, 
sir !    She  has  informed  me  of  your  imprudent  marriage,  sir ! 

f/r  0.^  Don't  to^ble  yourself  to  frame  a  lie,  sir  I  know  all, 
and  would  have  turned  you  out  of  the  house  instantly  if  it  ha^  not 
been  for  the  entreaties  -  (^..V^^)  -  to  say  nothing  ot  the  threats 
-(Aloud) -of  that  dear  child.  She  would  not  consent  to  be- 
come my  wife  until  I  had  promised  to  pay  all  your  debts. 

Alf.    Bless  her  Ihtle  heart!  . 

Sir  0.    And  that  I  should  agree  to  give  you  and  yourwite  an 

"^i"/  ^LTpo^^^l'e  ?  O,  n,y  dear  uncle  !  -  (Embracing  h^m^  - 
I  shall  ifo  mad  with  joy ;  you  must  see  my  Julia  directly  -  she  is 
no  f  tff-  at  a  relation's  -  we'll  have  her  here  instantly.  Adieu 
for  the  present,  my  dear  uucXe  I- (Aside.) -Wh<.t  will  he  sa, 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


19 


when  he  knows  the  truth?  —  (Aloud.)  —  But  may  I  hope  you  are 
no  longer  angry  with  us  ? 

Sir  O,    Pm  not  very  much  pleased,  at  any  rate. 

DUO. 

Of  a  noble  race  was  Shenkin** 
Sir  Owen, 

Of  a  noble  race  descended, 

On  your  duty  I  depended  ; 

I'd  a  right  to  feel  offended; 

But  the  matter  now  is  ended, 

And  the  least  said's  soonest  mended. 

Alf.  —  {Aside,) 

But  I'm  inclined  to  think  you'll  find 
That,  upon  this  head,  the  least  you've  said 
Is  much  more  than  you  intended ! 

lExit, 

Sir  0,  Well,  he  has  taken  it  much  better  than  I  had  any  right  to 
expect  he  would  ;  for  my  marrying  will  make  a  serious  difference  to 
him :  he  has  always  expected  one  day  or  other  to  come  in  for  my 
fortune  — now,  of  course,  it  will  go  to  my  children !  — (Dora 
passes  through  hall  at  back  of  stage,)  —  Ah,  there  goes  old  Dora  I 
I  ought  to  tell  her  my  intentions.  I  will  —  I'll  do  everything  in 
proper  order.  —  {Goes  to  back,  and  calls,)  —  Dora!  Dora! 

Do,    {Answering  off,)  —  Coming,  Sir  Owen,  coming. 

Enter  Dora. 

Sir  0,    Come  here,  Dora,  and  sit  down  by  me. 

Do,  What !  Sir  Owen,  me !  —  sit  down  by  you !  —  my  heart,  my 
heart !  that  will  never  do  ! 

Sir  0,  Sit  down,  do,  when  I  desire  you,  and  don't  be  an  old 
fool  I 

Do,  {Courtesies,)  —  You  are  very  kind,  Sir  Owen.  —  {Sits  down 
fearfully.)  —  There,  I  am  down,  Sir  Owen. 

Sir  0,  Then  listen.  Your  niece  is  a  charming  little  girl  —  I'm 
delighted  with  her,  and  I  mean  to  marry  her ! 

Do,  {Starts  up  astonished^  sits  down  again,  afraid  of  Sir  O.) 
—  Did  you  say  marry  my  niece  ?  —  {Aside,)  —  O,  dear  I  —  O,  dear ! 
what  am  I  to  do  or  say  now  ?    David  Jones  did  not  tell  me  of  this. 

Sir  0,    Well,  dame,  you  consent,  I  suppose  ? 

Do,    Pless  me  1  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

Sir  0.    How !  nothing  to  do  with  it  ? 

Do,  O!  that  is,  I  mean,  if  you  — if  Taffline  likes  it  — it  is  all 
right,  look  you  —  it  is  her  affair. 

Sir  O,  Ah!  exactly;  I  understand  you  — then  it's  all  settled, 
and  we  shall  be  married  directly. 

Do,  {Aside.) — All  settled!  and  be  married  directly! — dear  I 
dear !  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  —  {Aloud,)  -  -  And  what  does  Mr.  Al- 
fred say  to  this,  Sir  Owen  ? 


20 


THE  WELSH  GIRL. 


Sir  0.  Mr.  Alfred,  indeed !  I  suppose  I  have  a  right  to  do  as 
I  like  without  consulting  Mr.  Alfred !  -  but  pray  don't  distress  your- 
self about  him,  for  he  approves  it  highly;  and  he  and  his  wife  are 
coming  to  live  ^ith  us  here  in  the  old  castle. 

Do  His  wife !  -  {Aside.)  -  0,  dear !  -  O,  dear !  Well,  Sir 
Owen,  if  you  are  content,  and  Mr.  Alfred  is  content,  and  every- 
pody  is  content,  I  am  sure  I  am,  look  you.  —  {Aside,)  —  J3ut  it  is 

^^^V^a^^I  think  you  will  have  reason  to  be  satisfied,  old  dame, 
for  you  shall  share  in  the  general  good;  and,  to  begin,  I  shall  make 
you  a  little  present  to  buy  a  new  gown  with  for  the  wedding — 
there,  there's  five  sovereigns  for  you.  .    _  , 

Do  Can  it  be  ?  —  pless  me,  I  never  had  so  much  money  in  my 
hand  before,  look  yau !  And  is  it  really  mine  —  all  my  own  —  my 
very  own  ? 

Sir  0,    Certainly!  , 

Do  I  peg  pardon.  Sir  Owen,  but  let  me  ask  you  one  thing. 
If,  by  chance,  you  should  change  your  mind,  look  you,  or  anythmg 
should  happen  to  put  ofl-  the  marriage,  must  I  give  you  back  these 
pretty  little  things  ?  ^     _  . 

Si.r  0.  By  no  means.  Do  you  suppose  that  I  give  a  thing,  and 
take  a  thing,  as  the  school-boys  say  ? 

Do,  Pless  you !  Cot  pless  you.  Sir  Owen !  -  {Puts  the  money 
in  her  pocket.— Aside,)— 1  like  to  be  sure  before  I  spend  any  of 

it,  look  you.  _ 

Enter  David. 

Dav.    Sir  Owen,  your  niece  will  be  here  in  about  a  minute. 
Sir  0.    Indeed!  so  soon  arrived;  she  must  have  been  very  near 
at  hand.  ,       ,    ^         ^  .  , 

Dav,    Much  nearer  than  you  thought  for,  certainly. 
Do,    O,  I  was  afraid  of  this  ? 
Sir  0,    And  why  should  you  be  afraid? 

Do,  Ah,  Cot  pless  you.  Sir  Owen !  when  she  comes,  my  niece 
goes  for  certain,  look  you. 

Sir  0.  Not  at  all  — not  at  all!  Taffline  has  nothing  to  fear 
from  her.    But  tell  me,  David,  what  is  she  like  —  eh? 

Dav.  Why,  like  what  /  call  a  very  pretty  woman  —  but  there  s 
no  accounting  for  tastes,  you  know.  You'll  be  ^o^ry  for  what 
you've  done  when  you  see  her,  1  can  tell  you.  Ah  I  ve  i^eard  all 
about  it !  A  pretty  ridiculous  figure  you'll  look  with  a  young  thing 
like  that  for  a  wife. 

Sir  0,    David!  David! 

Dav.  Well,  don't  blame  me,  you  know  —  that  s  all  —  it  s  your 
own  doings  - 1  told  you  not  —    But  here  comes  your  niece. 

Enter  Alfred,  conducting  Julia,  dressed  as  herself,  she  afraid  to 
advance. 

Sir  0.    iAside,)  —  Since  I  have  given  my  word  to  Taffline,  l' 


THE  WELSH  GIRL, 


21 


must  keep  it;  but  I  more  than  half  repent  having  consented  to  see 
this  fine  lady. 

Ju.  (Aside  to  Alfred.)  —  Dear  Alfred  —  my  heart  fails  me  at 
the  last.  What  will  Sir  Owen  say  when  he  finds  how  I  have  de- 
ceived him  ?  —  (During  this,  David  and  Dora  are  trying  to  per- 
suade Sir  Owen  to  go  to  meet  Julia.) 

Dav,  Well,  I  do  think  you  might  as  well  behave  like  the  gentle- 
man you  are,  and  go  and  meet  the  poor  girl  —  she  is  frightened  out 
of  her  wits  at  being  in  your  presence. 

Alf.  Dear  uncle  —  here  is  my  wife  —  my  darling  Julia  —  allow 
me  to  present  her  to  you. 

Sir  0,  (Bowing  without  looking  at  her,)  —  Happy  to  see  you 
ma  am  let  all  be  forgotten  —  and  —  and  —  make  yourself  as  com- 
lor table  as  you  can. 

Ju.  O  sir— dear  sir  I  —  (Aside.) What  shall  I  do? —the 
words  will  not  come  out.  -  (Aloud.)  -~  And  you  will,  then,  indeed, 
lorgive  me  ?  ^77, 

Sir  0.    How's  this  ?  —  that  voice  seems  familiar  to  me  —  where 

^^.^7/  ^  ^^^s  ^*  "^^an  ^  —  what  does  it  mean,  I  sav ? 

Alf.    Dear  sir,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Ju.  (Assuming  the  accent.)  —  Sir  Owen  is  surprised,  look  you 
tnat  IS  all. 

Sir  0.    (Looks  at  her  a  moment,  then  turns  furiously  to  Al- 
fred.) —  What  deceit  —  what  fool's  trick  is  this  ? 
Dav.    Forgive  'urn,  and  you  shall  know  all. 
Sir  O.    Never!  never! 
Alf.    Dear  uncle,  hear  me. 

Sir  0.  I  will  not,  sir.  Out  of  my  house,  and  never  presume  to 
cross  my  threshold  again. 

Ju.  (Advancing  timidly  to  him.)  —  Hear  m,e,  dear  sir —  I  ^m 
the  only  culprit,  and  ought  to  be  the  only  sufferer.  Your  nephew 
would  not  have  incurred  your  displeasure  but  through  me —  let 
him,  through  me,  be  again  restored  to  your  affection.  You  ap- 
proved the  heart  and  feelings  of  the  little  Welsh  girl;  believe  me 
I  have  not  changed  them  with  my  dress.  Keep  your  wealth  —  we 
renounce  it  cheerfully  -  all  we  covet  is  your  love,  dear  sir- 
aflord  us  that,  and  you  will  make  two  of  the  happiest  beings  in  the 
Owen  ?~  ^^^1  say  Yes  to  that,  dear  Sir 

Sir  0.    (Quite  overcome,  embraces  her  affectionately.) —  -Dq^lv 
child  —  dear  child  —  God  bless  you.  ^ 
Alf.    Dear  uncle ! 

in  your  life  ^^^^^^'""^^^  ^^^^  done  a  right  thing  for  once 

David  ^00?^^^  ^^^^      ^^^^     ^  ^Q^igue  against  me  —  you, 

Dav.  To  be  sure  — ^when  you  don't  behave  yourself  properly, 
you  know,  I  am  always  against  you.  ^   tf  j'> 

Sir  0.    And  Dora  here  ? 

Do.    Cot  pless  you  —  what  could  I  do  ?    I  could  not  refuse,  look 
you  —  could  you  ?  ' 


22  THE  WELSH  GIKL. 

Sir  0.    No,  no;  you  are  right,  old  dame  — I  could  not,-- 

^Takes  J-J-'^  5-^^^^  ,i„,e  you  should  stand  in  need  of 

fathe;  or  motLi  aunt -look  you,  I  shall  be  happy 

"tJT"  Thanks,  Dora,  thanks  —  but  here  I  have  found  them  all.  — 
rCom^.iSrW^  ^;,,^,-mayI  hope 

L  usu^  t^  find  friends  here;  and  if  among  them  there  be  any 
Welsh  who  think  I  have  ill-used  their  "^tive  ongue-with  the^^^ 
aid  vour  kind  permission,  1  will  repeat  it  until  I  am  perfect  in  the 
£ecto^'ra^  LITTLE  WELSH  GIRL  "-Cot  pless  you. 

Vaudeville.  —  Finale, 


Julia, 

The  Vaudeville,  flower  of  Gallia's  nation, 
Bears  but  ill  the  transplantation; 
Yet  we've  dared,  in  imitation, 
Cambria's  harp  to  wake. 
Now  the  frolic's  ended  — 

^&^jZ"fb7.n^  gentle  mercy  Wended. 
l>oom  not  Cambria's  bards  to  slaughter, 
Lonffshanks-like,  who  gave  no  quarter, 
But  with  kindness  treat  her  daughter, 
For  her  music's  sake. 

CHORUS. 
Now  the  frolic's  ended,  AO. 


THS  BND. 


